14. Twist
FOURTEEN
Twist
A PIECE OF CITRUS ZEST (A THIN, CURLED SLICE OF A CITRUS FRUIT PEEL) ADDED TO A DRINK FOR FLAVOR OR DECORATION, EITHER IN THE DRINK DIRECTLY OR HANGING ON THE SIDE OF THE GLASS
The first thing Maggie noticed as consciousness crept back was the warmth radiating from the strong arm draped over her. The second: just how good the bazillion-thread-count sheets felt swathed around her naked body. The third: the faint scent of sandalwood. The fourth: the collection of classic novels lining the bookshelf across the room.
Oh, right.
McGarvey’s place.
A tiny smirk played at the corners of her mouth as she shifted her gaze to the painfully, impossibly beautiful man lying beside her. His deep chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his handsome face completely slack in sleep.
She had matched his passion, toe to toe—among other parts. Rode him like he was the last Harley out of the mouth of hell. Snatched his soul and sucked it dry like a soup dumpling.
Fucking took. Him. Out.
And somehow, draining enough intensity from him to allow him this kind of rest felt like doing something worthwhile. Something she could keep, even if she couldn’t keep him.
And looking at him, at the raw vulnerability stripped bare by sleep, she realized something new. A small flutter in her stomach as delicate as a moth, but no less real for its subtlety.
She wanted to keep him.
Wanted to keep this . The feeling of his arm around her like something worth protecting.
But he can’t protect you from dangers he doesn’t know about.
Unease spread like an oil slick in her stomach.
She searched his face, asking in her mind a question she couldn’t when those leonine eyes gazed intensely into hers.
If she told him everything, would he understand?
Would he even want to try?
McGarvey stirred in his sleep, making Maggie’s heart stutter.
She couldn’t afford to entertain these thoughts.
Lifting her head from the pillow, she squinted into the silent serenity of his room.
The clock on his dresser was out of her line of sight, but judging from the light, or lack thereof, she guessed the early winter evening was imminent. Not wanting to wake Trent just yet, she carefully disentangled herself from him and slipped out of bed. Her skin tingled as it met the cool air of the room, McGarvey’s ministrations having left it hypersensitive.
She tiptoed across the room toward the hallway, breath held in anticipation of the creaking floorboards betraying her presence.
If they did, McGarvey was sleeping hard enough not to notice, thank God. After borrowing his deliciously plush bathrobe from the bathroom, Maggie slipped into it and approached the laundry closet.
Their frenzied, multi-location tangle hadn’t included switching her laundry into the dryer.
Gingerly opening the washer’s porthole, she drew out the damp wad of her clothing and lobbed it into the dryer, shushing the machine when it chirped to life.
After several moments, she managed to push a combination of buttons that made her sodden items begin to cartwheel in the drum.
Next, hydration.
Between sweat and various other bodily fluids, she wouldn’t be surprised if she’d lost a good five pounds if she stepped on a scale.
But for once, she hadn’t the faintest desire.
All she needed to know about her body, Trent McGarvey had bitten, sucked, licked, kissed, and thrust into her.
The thought curled the corners of her kiss-swollen lips as she uncapped the bottled water she swiped from the fridge and set off toward the foyer in search of her purse.
When she found her phone by feel, her stomach dropped when the screen lit up with a veritable scroll of notifications.
Eleven missed calls.
Ten voicemails.
The number that the first three were from made her heart leap into her throat.
Queensboro Correctional Facility.
Charlie.
Here in McGarvey’s immaculate kitchen was the last place she wanted to hear that voice, but the idea of carrying their content in her purse like a bomb until her clothes were dry and she could get home to Roxie seemed infinitely worse.
Fingers trembling, she turned the volume down and pressed play on the first one.
“Hey, Shortcake…”
Ice water replaced her blood at the sound of that once-familiar voice, roughened by four years of a life lived in the roughest of places. Maggie clutched the counter for support, her palms already growing clammy.
“Got good news, baby doll. They’re lettin’ me out early. You can pick me up at Queensboro anytime after noon.” An oily chuckle. “Wear that green dress I like, okay? The one with the lace over your tits. You won’t be needin’ no panties, if you know what I mean…” His voice trailed off into another repugnant chuckle.
The queasy feeling in her stomach intensified; her knuckles were white against the counter’s edge. She swallowed around a desiccated throat, hesitating for a moment before pressing the next voicemail.
“Hey, doll face, me again,” Charlie began, somehow managing to sound both ingratiating and menacing. “Didn’t pick up, huh? You must be busy getting yourself all pretty for me.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. Suddenly, he was serious again. “When you come pick me up, bring a twelve-pack of Bud and some of them pork rolls you used to make? My mouth is watering just thinkin’ about them.”
The memory was having quite the opposite effect on Maggie.
“Can’t wait to see you, baby.”
A single bead of sweat trickled down Maggie’s ribs as she pressed play on the first message from a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hey, Shortcake. You on your way or what? I been sitting out here with my thumb up my ass for an hour now. Had to borrow a phone offa”—mumbling in the background—“some chick named Carol, and she’s gettin’ real uppity about getting it back. Call me back.”
The next voicemail was from yet another different number.
“You think you can just leave me hanging, huh?” He was practically growling now, his voice low and dangerous. “I’ve been out here for over two hours, Maggie. Where the hell are you?” He spat her name out like a curse.
A shudder rippled through her flesh, and an icy gust of dread fluttered over her flushed skin. How easily something as simple as a slight shift in his tone of voice used to be able to ruin her entire day.
Next.
“Maggie…” Charlie’s voice was softer now, almost pleading again. “Pick up the damn phone, would ya? Look, it’s okay if you don’t have gas money because you got your nails for me. I ain’t even mad. You still got my old man’s ring? We can pawn it for…”
Next.
“Never mind. I got me a ride. I oughta be home by”—a lengthy silence, during which Charlie presumably did the heavy lifting of basic math—“six o’ clock. I sure hope you’re there waiting for me.”
This sounded more like a threat than a wistful wish.
“What the fuck, Maggie!” Charlie bellowed at the beginning of the next message. “I just walked in on some old broad in the shower. Where the fuck are you? And where the fuck is all our stuff?”
Every rational cell in her body screamed at her to hang up, to delete these vile messages and put a continent between herself and this dark specter from her past. But she couldn’t stop until she knew everything there was to know.
Her curse, always.
“You know I can find you, right, Shortcake? You always did love your games. But just remember, baby doll, I got the better team. Always have, always will.”
By team , she assumed he was referring to the pack of pathetic self-styled petty criminals and con men who sat around Italian restaurants trying to convince themselves they were in an episode of The Sopranos . They’d never been the most capable bunch, but frequently what they lacked in mental acumen, they made up for in bravado and surprisingly effective police connections.
Maggie took a sip of water, willing it to loosen her aching throat.
The last three messages were the most disturbing by far.
By the muffled quality of the sound, she could tell Charlie had the phone tucked in some pocket on his person. She heard the rustling of material, and a low hum of background noise. Then the sound that sent shivers coursing down her spine: a woman’s voice, roughened by decades of a pack-a-day habit.
Her mother’s.
Charlie had gone to her parents’ house in Long Island to try to figure out where she’d gone.
She made out a few words, “Boston” and “business” among them.
In the next message, Maggie could hear a shriller edge in her mother’s voice.
In the last, Charlie was back, this time his words dripping with the smug self-satisfaction that had always made Maggie’s fingers itch for a Louisville Slugger.
“Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” he cooed into her ear, pouring a sickeningly sweet, paternal poison down the line. “Never figured you for a Pacific Northwest girl, what with all those hippie-dippy granola types.” His low chuckle gurgled in her ear like a drain threatening to overflow. “But I think a little travel will do me good. I owe yas a second honeymoon. I’ll see you soon, Shortcake.”
The line went dead, Charlie’s trailing laughter lingering ominously for a moment longer before being swallowed by the silence.
Maggie’s heart hammered in her chest, her fingers remaining frozen into a claw when she let the phone slip from her hand and clatter to the counter.
He knew.
Some-fucking-how, he knew where she was.
And he was coming to find her. Here, in Townsend Harbor.
A cold wave of terror washed over Maggie, cementing her in place as she grappled with the fact that Charlie knew where she was. She could practically see him swaggering into town, his sneer turning every warm, welcoming smile cold. The thought of him interacting with the people she had begun to care for made her stomach lurch.
Vivid pictures began to paint themselves in her mind like a horror movie on fast forward. Charlie at Sirens, his boisterous laugh filling the space, his hand too low on Chris Stone’s back as he ordered a beer. Charlie in Nevermore Bookstore, the ever-present toothpick making its constant journey from one side of his thick lips to the other, sucking his teeth at the very idea of wasting your time doing something as useless as reading. Charlie at Bazaar Girls, his ragged fingernail catching on a bright knot of yarn as he snorted his scorn at all fanciful feminine pursuits.
“Everything okay?”
Maggie leapt at the sound of McGarvey’s voice, her entire body sizzling with a hot bolt of adrenaline.
She clutched a hand to her chest, whirling around to find him leaning against the doorframe in a sexy slouch, boxers riding low on his lean hips, eyes hooded with sleep.
“Jesus,” she wheezed, trying to arrange her face into playful scorn. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
His luscious lips twisted into a smirk. “I, uh, flushed the toilet and cleared my throat.”
“Oh,” she said, folding her arms beneath her breasts and willing her hummingbird of a heart to slow. “My bad. I just came out to get some water.”
He sauntered to the fridge and pulled out a water for himself. “Good idea,” he said before snapping off the cap and chugging several healthy swallows.
Maggie watched the muscles in his back shift and flex as he bent to examine the contents of the fridge. The broad expanse was a testament to a man who had been through many varieties of trials, endured, and emerged stronger.
Strong enough to bear the full weight of her past?
Maggie didn’t know. But for the life of her, she couldn’t bring herself to ask him to.
Swallowing hard, she watched as Trent turned around, leaning against the counter with a puzzled expression etched on his handsome face. The intensity in his eyes made her heart pound harder in her chest. “So, what were you doing out here all alone?” he asked, eyes slightly narrowed. “And why did you sneak out of bed all catlike and quiet?”
Maggie tried for a saucy giggle but landed closer to a constipated chuckle. “I just thought that after all that activity, you might could use some rest.”
McGarvey’s brows lowered as he tipped his chin down, all seductive smolder.
“On the contrary,” he said, coming around the counter. “I woke up very ready for another round.”
Maggie’s eyes widened as she noticed for the first time the slitted head of McGarvey’s cock just visible above the waistband of his boxers.
And damned if her mouth didn’t water.
Her breath hitched as he came around behind her, pressing his arousal against her lower back, big arms sliding around her ribcage and pulling her back against the warm wall of his chest.
Maggie tipped her head backward against his sternum as his chin came to rest atop her crown like he’d held her this way a thousand times before.
Her eyes fell closed as a wave of unexpected emotion washed over her. The scent of him, a mix of lingering cologne and the musky remnants of their passion, proved a potent comfort.
“I like seeing you in things that belong to me,” Trent rumbled against her back, a finger tracing the edge of the bathrobe against the swell of her breast. “Like my bed.”
Desire pooled low in her belly as his hand slipped beneath the flush fabric, finding her already achingly stiff nipple and pinching it lightly between his fingers.
Maggie bit her lower lip as his other hand began sliding down her stomach.
Just as she felt her resolve beginning to crumble, her phone buzzed on the counter, its screen lighting up with the same number Charlie’s final voicemails had come from.
Maggie lunged for it without thinking, her slick hands fumbling to silence it before turning it facedown on the counter.
“Sorry,” she said, extracting herself the rest of the way from McGarvey’s embrace. “Goddamn telemarketers.”
He tilted his head, furrowing his brow thoughtfully. His dark eyes were like an x-ray machine, scanning her for the truth she was trying so hard to hide.
“Which reminds me,” she said. “I owe Chris a call. I’m just going to throw my clothes on and give her a shout.”
“Whoa,” he said, reaching out for her elbow. “Hey. Where you going all of a sudden?”
“It’s not sudden.” Maggie laughed, wiggling out of his grip and striding toward the laundry closet. “I’ve been here for hours. It’s almost Roxie’s dinnertime, and?—”
He blocked her path, resting both hands on her shoulders. “Take a breath. Your clothes aren’t even dry yet.”
Maggie ducked out from beneath them, wrenching open the dryer drawer and grabbing the still alarmingly damp items before they’d even finished their tumble.
“Dry enough for the short walk home,” she said, already padding away.
“You could borrow some of my sweats,” Trent called out after her as she disappeared into the bathroom.
Maggie gave a dry chuckle as she got her bra and panties. “Aside from issues of physics when it comes to your narrow hips and my not-narrow ass, making my official walk of shame in clothing different than what I came in is the last thing I need after your little parade leader act earlier.”
McGarvey was waiting outside the bathroom, following after her as she strode toward the foyer. “How about I come with you? I was excellent at feeding Roxie, if you’ll remember.”
Maggie turned around, meeting his earnest gaze and offering a small, rueful smile. “I remember, Trent,” she said softly, reaching out to cradle his cheek for a moment. “You are excellent at many things.” She dropped her hand and took a step back, her defensive walls rising again. “But I really need to get working for notes on my podcast, and with you around, something tells me I’d be doing a lot of not writing.”
She winked at him as she stepped into her boots and shrugged into her coat, a measure of the ache in her chest easing as she saw his eyes soften.
“Gotta go,” she said, leaning in to plant a quick peck on his lips that Trent foiled by taking her face in both hands. They threaded into her hair as his tongue teased the seam of her lips, the brief squeeze against her scalp enough to send fresh goosebumps cascading down her body
“I’ll call you later,” he said, releasing her.
“Not if I call you first.” Tears blurred Maggie’s vision the second she pushed through the door and threatened to spill from her lids by the time she hit the bottom of the stairs and shoved through the door to the street.
Running directly into Gabe and Gemma in the process.
“Whoa,” Gabe said, catching Maggie by both shoulders and helping her catch her balance. A knowing smirk lifted one corner of his mouth as his eyes moved from her hair to her mouth to her eyes. “I’d ask you where the fire is, but I have a feeling I already know.”
“Shut up, Gabe,” Gemma scolded, but her grin betrayed her own curiosity. “Maggie’s in a hurry, that’s all.”
Maggie wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and hide from their prying eyes. Her mind raced, searching for a sassy retort or a quick deflection, but all she could do was stammer out, “Right. Well, I…um…need to check on my dog. Because she’s blind. And deaf. And hungry. And blind.”
“You said that already,” Gabe said, arching an eyebrow.
“Uh, yeah, well, that’s because she’s…uh… very blind,” Maggie said, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Anyway. I always cock—uh—cook her dinner myself and…and okay, fine!” Maggie suddenly blurted out, tears welling in her eyes. The emotional turmoil had finally bubbled over, and she needed to get it all out. “We totally fucked! Is that what you want to hear?”
Gemma and Gabe exchanged shocked glances, neither expecting such an outburst from their usually composed friend.
“Whoa, Maggie, we were just teasin’,” Gabe said, his expression softening. “No need to get all upset about it.”
“It’s fine.” Maggie sniffled. “But I’m going to go now, okay? Away. Like, now. Right now.”
And for no reason she could think of, Maggie found herself sprinting, tearing down the street like a woman possessed, feeling her past gaining on her even as the frigid winter air chilled the tracks of her tears.