BUFF Read online

  "One I'll never make again."

  * * *

  THE COFFEE’S BITTER. He sips the dark-brown liquid again; the sour feel stronger than the first time. Already standing over the sink he dumps the contents of what consisted of his breakfast and begins to clean it.

  His sigh is harsh and unforgiving when it falls from his mouth. He rinses the soap off the mug and slams it into the drain board. He hasn’t slept all night. He’s ready to drop. His body aches, his mind is paste and his fingers won’t stop shaking. Even his side hurts.

  He needs a proper caffeine fix. Black, no sugar or cream, just one sixteen-ounce cup in the A.M. and he’ll be set for the day. Rubbing his temple Colt braces one hand on the sink, making the skin redden under his kneading.

  If he's honest with himself he’d spent the whole night avoiding the truth. His bad mood has nothing to do with lack of sleep or any other excuse. It has nothing to do with the pain in his head or the fatigue beating up his body.

  It's her.

  All her.

  He spent half the night sitting in the dark of the living-room, the other half standing outside her door listening. Waiting.

  The sound of the bedroom door shutting clicks in his ear, the soft thud is followed by the slap of bare feet. Suddenly he remembers he isn’t wearing a shirt. It’d gotten so hot in the living-room last night he was sweating like he'd been running for ten miles. His shirt is still in the living-room.

  Colt makes a mad dash, jumping over the four-foot counter that separates the two rooms before heading straight for the couch. His eyes do a quick thorough scan for the dark-blue shirt, throwing the cushions off then flopping them messily back in place. It's a waste of time. Becky’s already entering the kitchen. He can feel her eyes on his back and he does another fast skim, but in such a rush he comes up empty.

  When he faces the kitchen, her back is to him. He hears her gentle hum, the soft pad of her feet shuffling against the floor tiles. Her hair is still damp from her shower, waving and free from its usual ponytail style. Her skin has a flushed tint from the steam and he can smell the clean soapy scent of her soap. She smells like sex and sweet sweet sugar.

  He faces back to the window. His mood just goes from gloomy to homicidal. He breathes out, his chest tight.

  It's okay... He is pretty fucking sure she’s never gonna speak to him again anyway. And since he's leaving it really—

  “I'm making breakfast. Want some?"

  His backbone tingles for no reason but the simple fact that she’s so unaware of how erotic she can be and how clueless she is of her own power over him. Her innocence provokes him, makes him want to toy with her. But she despises him and he’s not going to play Russian roulette with himself. He isn’t that much of a masochist. Maybe he won’t be so agitated and moody if he had just—

  “You want some or not?"

  His eyes shut. “No.”

  He hears her whisper, “Okay,” and his eyes squeeze down.

  He’s the Devil incarnate and she’s... an angel.

  He’s such a bastard.

  Deciding to sit but not turn he leans back into the couch. He has a while before his shift is over. He needs distance. Desperately. Being this close to her for such a long period of time is starting to gnaw at his insides.

  Her hum drifts into the living-room, rising a bit, like an entrancing aroma of sound, hitting his senses, dulling his strength and reserve.

  “How’d you sleep?” he asks.

  The moving of pots and pans halts. She sighs before she continues, finally replying, “Fine, thanks."

  He shakes his head, the pressure on his chest plate lessening a scant. “Good.” He licks his dry lips. “I'm glad,” he whispers, only for him to hear.

  “What?"

  “What?” He turns his head.

  As though suddenly shy she brings her attention back to the stovetop. “I thought you said something.”

  “Oh. No.” He sits up, straightening his shoulders. This is ridiculous, not to mention unlike him to be so aware and unsure of the fact on how to deal with her.

  She's just a woman. An eighteen-year-old girl for fuck’s sakes.

  He makes his way over to the open kitchen, her delectable smell mixing with the eggs she’s whipping in the bowl. Becky, for the first time, seems to be completely unaware of him. Her humming continues.

  He notices she’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday sans the ugly, bulky sweater. Her jeans are too baggy for his taste as well, disguising her whole form from view and from what he can remember of her shape she has one. A very cute, sexy one.

  The first time he fully saw her body in all its glaring beauty was when he was on death's door. But even shot and semiconscious he could still, now, recall that white dress and how the fabric cupped and hugged her lush breasts and how the sheer fabric strained as she bent lower... and there, in the dark he could almost make out one ripe red cherry—

  A zip of electricity buzzes under his skin. He shakes it off and looks away. He remembers her skin is luminescent, like angel wings. The ultra femininity of her body leaves a paralyzing image that’s forever seared in his memory. It's something he wishes to forget.

  Fuck! Think of mud, think of Kulich butt-naked, anything else...

  He tries, he forces, but he always strays back. The plain white t-shirt she’s sporting now is tighter than her usual attire. The material between the valley of her breasts stretches every time her arms move, even an inch. It's sick and not like him to be so distracted by such a small insignificant thing.

  But he is.

  Clearing his throat and hopefully the effect of his wandering mind, his attention goes back to the present. “You like to cook?” he asks.

  “I guess,” she mumbles, pouring the scrambled yokes into the frying pan. “It's definitely something I can do without messing it up." Her chuckle at the end of her comment doesn’t sit well with him.

  “You cooked a lot at home?"

  She pauses, only for a split second, but he sees it and immediately tastes his damn foot.

  “I cooked three times a week. It was part of my chores."

  “Chores…?” The word sounds foreign coming off his tongue. “What can you cook?"

  “Anything. I can't make fancy stuff. I do make a great meatloaf and my mashed potatoes are always the creamiest. At least Toby—” She trips a bit on her last phrase. Her baby brother’s name fades into the air, evaporating into nothingness; kinda like the blank sheet of paper her face morphs into.

  “You okay?” He doesn’t like the way she pauses as her body sways forward a bit.

  “Fine,” she answers, a little too quickly.

  His feet are up and he’s next to her before he realizes it. “Let me finish."

  She turns her back slightly to him, not relenting in her cooking. "No. I'm fine."

  She’s a terrible liar. Her face is paler than her t-shirt, her eyes are hollow, rimmed red, shadowed blue, her lips are bloodless and chapped and her body is doing that trembling thing again.

  Colt isn’t a man accustomed with having to be delicate with his words, but he fights to remain relaxed with her. It takes all the strength inside of him.

  "Maybe after this you can get some more sleep. Looks like you could use a couple more hours."

  “That bad,” she mumbles. Her face remains hidden by her curtain of hair.

  He pauses before replying, "No. No I mean—”

  “I know what you mean, I get it."

  ”No, I don't think you do."

  She turns, pulling a one-eighty with her ambience. “Sure you don't want me to make you some?” She forces a smile.

  “No.” His reply is severe. “What's wrong?"

  “Sorry?”

  She fakes dumb even worse than outright lying. “Why you acting weird?”

  “How am I acting weird?” She shrugs her shoulders.

  “You just are.” He moves closer. “What's going on?"

  She backs away almost immediately followin
g his step. “I'm making breakfast. That's all."

  “Last night you were a mess. Now you're acting like a goddamn pod-person. Something's up. What?"

  Her back stiffens. "Last night was last night."

  “And?” he pushes.

  “And nothing. Let's just forget it.”

  “You don't forget."

  She places the pan down, lowering the heat before she faces him. "I'm turning over a new leaf. Call it a rebirth, starting over, whatever. I'm doing what you want so why can't you just be happy and be quiet?"

  “Doing what I want?” he grunts, as he leans in.

  “Yes, yes, doing what you want, Colt.” Her hand slaps down on the ledge of the stove. “Playing the good little hostage. I remember my role very clearly, I'm not a complete idiot, I know my part, I'm playing it. Like you said we're going to be here for a while and I'm stressed enough from everything that’s happened, so—I’ll play nice, if that's okay with you?"

  He isn’t buying it. “Try being honest."

  Jerking back she replies, “I am being honest. What else do you want from me?"

  “I want you to…"

  “To what?” she demands, this time being the one to step forward.

  “I don't know but this isn't it. You don't have to pretend with me."

  “Just stop.” She holds her hand up in between their bodies. “Not only are you embarrassing me, you're embarrassing yourself.”

  His eyes darken, his brows lower in defense. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  “We went through this already last night. I think you made yourself perfectly clear, so stop acting.” She goes to turn and focus on her cooking, but Colt's hand snakes around her wrist, putting her back in place.

  “I don't act—got that? Anyway, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

  Her eyes close and she sighs. “I don't like that word."

  “Too bad.” he shoots back, not falling for her petty attempts at diversion. “What’d you mean stop acting?"

  “Stop pretending, Colt.” She pulls at his hold but it's useless. “Stop pretending to care; I know where you stand. I get it now. Crystal clear. So this whole caring routine you're doing isn't necessary."

  He steps closer, close enough that the tip of his toe is touching hers. “You think I'm pretending to care for you?"

  “You said last night—”

  “Fuck what I said last night—”

  “Colt,” she warns.

  “Answer the question,” he demands. “You really think I don't care?"

  She doesn’t hesitate in replying, “Yes." Her voice lifts then falls. "I really think you don't.”

  His bottom lip drops ever so slightly to reveal his hurt. His throat feels dry and suddenly he’s almost too aware of the warm skin underneath his fingers that are unconsciously wrapping around her. He feels her goose-bumps ringing around his hold, her shoulder's lifting.

  “You don't, Colt, you don't.” He can hear her giving in. “Right?"

  His body drifts nearer, diminishing the distance between them to a sliver of a thread. His stare heats and he can see her burning in slow degrees as the pad of his thumb falls and swishes against the white unexposed flesh of her inner wrist. He licks his lips, the battle of wills warring to life inside him. His thumb presses deeply into her pale baby-soft flesh. His eyes follow her small, nervous movements and he grows more aggressively pleased with each involuntarily shake her body makes.

  “Becky,” he murmurs, unsure of what he himself is doing as his other hand comes up to her face.

  “Colt…” She breathes his name in a warning, as though wanting him to stop but pleading for him to touch her. She pulls at his hold, twisting her hand so that her palm is facing the ceiling.

  “Don't...” His breathless whisper cautions.

  “Don't what?” she asks, her words foggy. “Colt?"

  There is a knock then a noise that sounds like keys jingling, but neither of them have the strength to look away from each other with the gravitational intensity that climbs between their bodies and pulses in their gaze.

  She tries to back away, but Colt won’t let her walk away.

  Not this time.

  “We... should... get that,” she whispers.

  “We're not done here."

  Then the door, which must have been stuck, gives in and someone stumbles into the cabin. They both continue to ignore the disruption, even when the sound of whistling couples with the crunching of paper bags. Even when they hear footsteps pad into the kitchen.

  “Um... Did I interrupt something?"

  * * *

  “SO?”

  "Only just got here, sir."

  "Get it done, Roman. Look for anything suspicious."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Call back the second you're done." Kulich ends the call before Roman can say another word.

  He ignores the woman who moves a little quicker than necessary, crossing the street as he makes his way up to the house. It's easy to guess why Roman sticks out like a sore thumb in his black dress coat and Italian shoes.

  To the people that pass him on the streets, Roman might appear cool, calm and officially collected, but the mirage is present and set for a reason, belying his very traceable purpose.

  Usually sent to kill.

  He walks past the strips of leftover police tape that lay stranded on the lawn and enters the house, immediately drawing his gun.

  Someone else is in the house.

  The noise is coming from upstairs. Slowly and quietly he takes one step at a time. It's been a few months since he last killed for his boss. He licks his lips. He loves a good afternoon kill.

  When he peers into the first bedroom he sees the back of a man who seems to be going through a drawer. Clearing his throat, loudly enough for Roman to inject his presence, the blonde-haired man jumps before turning around.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  "Who're you?" Roman replies, pointing his gun in one swift movement.

  The stranger puts his hands up, his eyes bulging out. "I-I—don't shoot! I'm a friend of the Appletons!"

  "What's your name?"

  "Doctor Irving. Are you a detective?"

  Roman lowers his gun. Maybe this friend of the family might have information his boss will want. Roman is almost annoyed he isn't going to kill today.

  Well, maybe...

  "Yeah..." Roman replies, placing the gun into the back of his trousers. "Yeah, I'm here to investigate what happened to the Appletons. Have a few questions for you." The doctor fails miserably at hiding the suspicion that creeps into his eyes and shoulders. “So. How you know the Appletons?"

  “Me and Spencer, we're friends. Close friends. That's, uh, why, I'm here... to see if there are any clues."

  “They were robbed, right?” Roman steps forward, crossing his thick arms and staring directly at this Doctor Irving like he’s salivating for an answer.

  “Supposedly... I don’t know... Wait, shouldn't you know all this?”

  "Just answer the question," Roman says, in a voice that warns not to ask too many questions.

  The doctor hesitates a bit, shuffling his feet as though contemplating his next words.

  You’re hiding something…

  And Roman will do anything to find it. Maybe he’ll get the chance to have a little fun, after all. Torture is Roman's second favorite pass time. First being murder, of course.

  “Rebecca—Spencer's daughter—we're pretty tight. She got mixed up with this guy. He was bad news. Think he might have had something to do with it. He was there the morning it happened."

  “Really? You know him?"

  “Not really, but from what I saw of him he’s a real punk. Becky deserves better. She's a good friend; I just want her to be okay. I mean, that's why I called the cops."

  Roman's shoulders stiffen under his big black dress-coat. Neither Jenson or Luis had mentioned that the cops had been called out.

  Boss ain't gonna be happy about this.

  “
Really...” Roman drawls out, slowly.

  “Yeah. I saw him there. I knew he was nothing but trouble. Her father didn't approve so I did what I thought was right, you know? And I guess I was because that bastard did something to them, I just know it. I don't know if they're dead or not but he has something to do with they're disappearance, Detective. I'd bet my life on it."

  Roman twists his head to the side to hide his annoyance. He really hates snitches. And this idiot in front of him is a snivelling snitch who Roman would be more than willing to pay Kulich to allow him to kill. Fortunately for the doctor, Roman doesn’t call the shots.

  "Know the name of this man?"

  “No. It's almost like they vanished into thin air.” He shakes his head. “I wish I could have killed that bastard when I had the chance."

  Roman cocks a brow, feigning interest. The man opposite is completely unaware of the blood simmering at a steady tempo under the reserved exterior of the man standing opposite him.

  “Yeah he beat me up, broke my nose. Piece-of-shit told me to stay away from her like he was her fucking keeper. I tell you, Detective, you think you know people and they totally blindside you. Rebecca… I never would have thought she’d go for some degenerate Neanderthal like that."

  Roman shrugs his shoulders, lifting his hand up in a gesture that tells the other man he understands. “Proves you can never really trust people," Roman adds. "No-one really is who they say they are."

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Doctor Irving mumbles.

  Roman straightens, extending his hand out to the man. “Thank you for your time, I appreciate it."

  “No problem.” The pathetic weasel shakes his offered hand and his stare travels the length of Roman's suit, inspecting it like he's never witnessed a well-dressed man before. “I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

  “That's cause I didn't give it." Roman looks serious for a second before stunning the man with a gleaming smile.

  He's done good today. Promotion is just right around the corner. Looks like they'll be a few vacancies needed to be filled soon seeing as there are a few naughty wolves in the pack.

  Hopefully he'll be the one to vacate them permanently.

  Chapter Twenty

  DEAD MAN.

  The guy who just walked in is officially a dead man. There is no mistaking the lethal gleam in Colt's eyes when he shoots the man a murderous look before returning his attention back to her, still firmly grasped in his clutch.