Hyde, an Urban Fantasy Page 10

“Never.”

  “How is that possible?” Mitch leaned back in his chair. “I lie before breakfast. And, if no one else is around, I lie to myself.”

  “That is exactly why you should leave her alone. It’s hard for people who haven’t grown up in the system to understand. At eighteen, the state dumped us with nothing but ourselves. They wiped their hands and waved goodbye. At that point, we each had to make a decision about which path to take. Eden is on the extreme of one of those paths—no lies and no deceit. Period. End of story.”

  “That’s not the end of this story, I hope. Because it sounds unbelievably boring.”

  “She was right—you are an asshole.”

  Mitch flinched, impressed. “She said that?”

  “Not as colorfully, but, yeah, she did.”

  “Huh. I wasn’t sure she’d noticed.”

  “Leave us alone, man. She doesn’t deserve this.” Carter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, but his body was still on edge. Ready to attack if given the slightest provocation. “She’s the best person I’ve ever met. That’s why I believe her when she said she wasn’t really there that night . . . with you. Something else was going on. I don’t know what was going on, but I know that she would never put herself into that position willingly. So, either you are a master manipulator or she was out of her mind. Literally. So which is it?”

  Mitch looked at the guy. The rookie had been replaced by someone who was genuinely afraid. For someone he was in love with. Wonder what that would feel like. “While I consider myself a good manipulator, if she really is who you say she is, I’m not that good.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “How long have you guys been together?”

  “Together?” Carter chuckled weakly. “That’s complicated. We’ve never really been together. More like two people occupying the same room but being in totally different places.” He adjusted himself, obviously uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken. “Shit. I think you just manipulated an answer out of me that I didn’t want to give.”

  “I told you I’m not that good at it.” Mitch shrugged, giving the guy a break instead of an asshole comment. “How’d you two meet?”

  “She considers me her hero.” Not an answer, a challenge.

  “That’s a big job title. Congrats. So, how long have you held that position?”

  “About six years or so.” With a sigh, he seemed to finally give in to Mitch’s nagging and might answer the question instead of deflecting. “Okay. We were living in the same group home. It was, like, her first week there, I think. One day, I’m on the phone with a friend and I walk into a room where four guys have her backed into a corner. It wasn’t hard to figure out what they were planning to do to her. So I told the guy I was on the phone with to call the cops.”

  “Did they kick your ass?”

  “Yep.”

  Protecting a stranger. Would Mitch do that? Could he let himself do that? “You are a good man.” A fucking boy scout.

  “Yeah, right.” Carter picked at a thread on his sweats. “I come out of it looking like some big hero because I yelled three words into a phone.” He sighed. “Ever since then, she sees me as her protector, like her big brother.”

  “People rarely sleep with their big brothers.”

  “It's not like that. We don’t—” His lips slammed together, and he reddened.

  Mitch would have given anything to know what the guy was about to say. They don’t what? Because if that sentence was going to end with, ‘fuck’, ‘sleep together’, or ‘put tab A into slot B’, that was something Mitch wanted to hear. He watched the boy scout’s face take on a deep burgundy hue.

  Holy shit, they don’t? Six years and they don’t? Sure, it had been years since Mitch and Jolie had been horizontal, but neither of them had any romantic feelings toward the other. Jesus, six years of friendship with someone you want but can’t have? It was proof that men and women can be friends, even when one of them spends that time crossing their fingers and hoping.

  “She knows I would die to keep her safe,” Carter said, “and I’d like to think she’d do the same for me.”

  Mitch put up his hands, palms out. “If she treats you like a big brother, why are you in love with her?”

  “Anyone who's ever spent five minutes with her knows why.”

  Their eyes locked, an understanding passing between them. An understanding Mitch didn’t think he needed. Or wanted.

  “But you already know that, don't you?” Carter asked, his jaw tight.

  Yeah, Mitch knew. Wished like hell he didn’t, but he knew. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “She thinks I’m too old.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Oh.”

  Fucking kids. “And I’m not a good man.”

  “Yeah, kinda figured that. So you’ll back off? Let me take care of her?”

  “Sure, why the hell not? I already have a job.” Mitch held out the key.

  CHAPTER XIII

  ----- Original Message -----

  From: “JCabot”

  To: “The Clinic”

  Subject: Project Hyde-0016

  As repeatedly stated in my many, many previous emails, Det. Nick Landon has been observing Subject Turner’s activities. Considering the situation and the relations with Subject Colfax that I’ve been assigned to encourage, it is very likely that Det. Landon will witness a transformation at some point. Why aren’t you more concerned about this?

  If nothing is done soon to protect Hyde-0016 from exposure, I will assume it is my responsibility to make sure attention is drawn away from Turner.

  ----- Reply -----

  From: “The Clinic”

  To: “JCabot”

  Subject: Re: Project Hyde-0016

  We are in the process of pulling the Detective off the case; however, it is taking a bit longer than first assumed. Do not do anything until you hear from us, Cabot.

  “’Do not do anything until you hear from us’?”Too late, jackass. You should check your precious inbox more often. If I’d called, it wouldn’t have happened, and I wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good dress. Now it’s too damned late.

  § § §

  “What the fuck!”

  Eden opened her eyes, thinking the same thing, though she’d never say it. Only a few days later and she was on his doorstep again, obviously her favorite place to sleep. Even though her back was aching and she probably had creases on her face from the brick façade she was leaning against.

  Mitch hauled her up and dragged her into his house. Not the direction he usually pushed her—which was away. He pulled her upstairs and into his bedroom.

  “No!” Still dazed, she fought him the whole way. She tried to gather her legs under her so she could scramble away, but he was moving too quickly. Past the bed. She clawed at his arm. “Stop it! Let me go!” Into the bathroom.

  “What the hell did you do, Eden?” He dropped her arm without warning, and she pitched sideways onto the vanity, directly in front of the large mirror hanging over the sink.

  Hearing the shower turn on, she gripped the edges of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Red-brown smudges, approximately the size of one of her fingers, drew three short lines across each cheek and one traveling from her hairline to the bridge of her nose. Like warrior paint. One of the lines was thicker than the others, and the blood had dripped down and dried near her jawline. She slowly let go of her death grip on the porcelain and turned her hands over. The color on the tips of each finger and her right palm matched the marks on her face. More splotches were scattered on her arms and legs.

  “Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?” Mitch’s hands were on her again, roughly turning her toward him and tearing off her clothes.

  She wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t her blood. She barely noticed his eyes traveling over her naked fle
sh as he turned her. When he touched her face, she flinched.

  “Eden, we need to clean you up. Come here.” He ripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto the floor, and kicked off his shoes.

  Tremors started in her legs, multiplying in speed and force as they moved up her body.

  “I’m going to pick you up now,” Mitch warned. He lifted her stiff body and cradled her to him. She wanted to burrow her face in his chest, but couldn’t twist her neck.

  He shifted her in his arms and took both of them into the steaming water.

  She felt him start to put her down. “No!”

  He stopped and held her as her body came to life and melted into him. They stayed there, water pouring down, soaking them both, his hair sticking to his strong cheekbones and into his eyes. She took one of the hands she knew belonged to her, but no longer had control of, and brushed a lock out of his eyes, stopping when she realized she might leave behind a trail of fear in the wake of her touch.

  Finally, she let him set her down. He gently wiped her cheeks and forehead with his thumb, wiping away tears and someone else’s blood. Then he lathered soap between his palms. His hands traveled across her skin—her chest, arms, neck. She arched into his touch, momentarily closing herself off from the reality she felt smothered by.

  She watched him crouch down to rub her legs, felt her breath grow shallow and quick. Their eyes met and his mouth opened slightly, letting out a long sigh.

  “Eden, I—” He shook his head, water droplets scattering from his hair. Then he tentatively took her by the hips and nudged her back—away— toward the hot pounding of the shower.

  She closed her eyes and moved into the direct pressure of the water, letting it rinse away a sin she had no memory of committing. She felt his fingers run through her hair and hold the nape of her neck.

  Once her heart resumed a more normal rhythm, she stepped closer to him and opened her eyes, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have washed me,” she whispered. “The police needed that as evidence.”

  “Listen to me.” His tone was steel. “At this point we know nothing. Something happened, but it could have been anything—a fight or a dead dog, for fuck’s sake.” His fingers dug into the back of her neck.

  “No, I should be locked up. It’s not safe for me—or for anyone else—to be out.”

  “So you stay here with me. I’ll take care of you.”

  “I need to find out what she—what I did,” Eden said.

  “You were right the first time, Eden: What she did.” He brushed his hand across her shoulder. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

  Eden shook her head. He reached around her to adjust the water temperature anyway. When he leaned back, she grabbed him around the waist so he wouldn’t go too far. He was solid, real. And she needed something real to keep her standing.

  She rested her cheek against his chest, pressing the length of her body against his, enjoying the closeness, feeling the stoking of fiery heat between her thighs, hotter than the water that rained down on them. Which led to more disgust at herself.

  This wasn’t her, who she was. None of it.

  He held her tightly while she cried.

  Wrapped in a thick towel, she watched Mitch search his closet and dresser for something she could wear. She ended up borrowing a tank top that smelled clean, like him, and workout shorts that hung down to her knees even after she’d rolled the waistband four times.

  What had she done? And to whom? Her brain wasn’t functioning properly. She’d been so secure knowing there was a right and a wrong answer to every situation. But not knowing what was going on threw that totally out of whack. If she’d done these things consciously, there would be no question. She’d go to the police immediately.

  No, that wasn’t right. If she’d been conscious, she would never have done any of this to begin with.

  Without a word, Mitch took her bloody clothes out of the room, as if seeing the evidence would remind her of something she didn’t remember to begin with. She was done trying to convince him she hadn’t been conscious. He either believed her or he didn’t. She wanted to think that he did. Knowing that he was helping a possible murderer get away with a crime was incomprehensible, even for him—someone who saw everything in shades of gray. Or maybe black. But never white. Nope, not Mitch.

  § § §

  Mitch could feel Hyde’s eagerness, his anticipation of freedom. It hit him in the gut, right below where Eden had rested her head in the shower. Where her tears had fallen.

  He was getting too close to her, wanting to be more than he could be. For her. You are walking a thin-fucking-line, asshole. The faster he was out of this, the better. Get her out of this mess and say ‘sayonara’. Yeah, right.

  “Fuck.” Mitch speed-dialed Jolie, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder while he tucked away the bloody clothes he’d pulled off Eden. He’d burn them later, but not while she was around. She was still reeling from her image in the mirror, from the blood on her hands. He’d told her that they’d find out what happened before he handed her over to the cops. He’d been lying about the second part of that. Although, if she decided to turn in herself in some kind of twisted sense of ethics, he couldn’t stop her.

  But what she needed was psychiatric help, not judicial. His mind going over the last few weeks, he was convinced she had two distinct personalities. If there were more, he hadn’t met them.

  “Good morning. Mitchell Turner’s off—”

  “It’s me.”

  “Mr. Schmitt has been waiting for twenty minutes,” Jolie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Where are you?”

  “Tell the lazy bastard to get back to work. And tell him that’s a direct quote from me. Cancel everyone else on the schedule today, I’m not coming in. Tomorrow too, Joles. Then I need you to do something for me.”

  “You always do. What’s up?”

  “Wait until Schmitt leaves and then call all the hospitals and emergency clinics within five miles of my house.”

  “What is going on?” He heard the nervousness in her voice.

  “I’ll tell you when I know. Ask them if anyone came in with a knife wound last night or early this morning. Actually, a knife or a bad beating. But try to be subtle about it.” Conning an answer out of an exhausted nurse wouldn’t even be a challenge for Jolie. He knew first-hand how well she lied.

  “What is happening, Mitchell?” Her voice was sticky, each word bleeding into the next. “Is someone there with you?”

  “Just do it, Jolie. I’ll explain when I can.” Maybe. Before she could argue, he hung up.

  She’d do what he asked. She always did, anticipating his needs and controlling the circus that followed in his wake. If there was a body, she’d probably volunteer to mop. Like she had with Shelly. She’d offered to help him hide Shelly’s body after he’d murdered her.

  “Don’t call the cops, Mitchell. They’ll put you in prison,” she’d said. And then they’d find out about him and what he became. He’d called them anyway. Who the hell else would punish him? But she’d stepped in and saved his ass again, cleaning and dressing him as if he were a child. And, when the police finally arrived, she’d offered up the alibi that they’d been at her house all night. So no jail time, no prison full of the carnage he would create, and no aftermath in a fucking lab somewhere for the rest of his existence. That’s what friends are for, he’d thought after his brain had started working again.

  And now he was doing the same thing for Eden, minus the beast, of course. Just a sick girl who, for some unknown reason, was drawn to the one man who wanted to help her as much as he needed to get rid of her.

  What a fucking mess. Yeah, she was right—relationships are complicated.

  Jolie called back and told him three people had been admitted into North Broward Hospital with a bleeding wound, but all had known their attackers or had done it to themselves. Ignoring the questions that came barreling across the phone line, Mitch hung up. It was time to take a
drive. A nice Sunday car-ride around the neighborhood to search for a body or a pool of blood. Happy, happy days.

  He found Eden lying on the couch, covered by a throw blanket.

  “I’ll be back in a little while,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” She sounded like she was on the edge of a cliff. But at least she was no longer falling.

  “Just a quick trip around the area to see if I can find anything.”