Deadly Past. Kris Rafferty
Cynthia when he saw the blond hair, so his imagination could have filled in the blanks with what he’d supposed should be there. Her expression settled into a scowl, directed at him, and he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.
“How many blondes do you know?” she asked. When he didn’t immediately answer, she swung the pillow at him, as if he’d done something wrong. It bounced off his chest and fell to the floor. “I mean, blond women who come to your house?” He retrieved the pillow and returned it to her. By then, Cynthia’s eyes had widened, her outrage stoked, as if he’d compounded a sin. What sin? “Charlie!”
“Do you want me to list them?” It wouldn’t take long. It was her and his mother.
Cynthia’s scowl hardened as she sunk deeper into the couch cushions. “Forget it.”
Her behavior confused him. After months of being ghosted, Charlie hadn’t taken Cynthia’s unexpected call lightly last night. In truth, he’d hoped the call had meant she’d finally moved beyond her embarrassment, and that she’d called him because she knew their friendship mattered more. Now, he didn’t know what to think.
“Two blondes. You and my mom,” he said.
“I said forget it.”
“Listen, you called me at least a half an hour after I saw the blonde in my driveway, and then you hung up. Why wouldn’t I assume the blonde had been you? It was an assumption. Shoot me. All that matters is that I have no idea who she is, or why those items are in my trunk.” She narrowed her eyes, as if he were talking around an issue. It told him she wanted to continue arguing about blondes. Charlie had other plans. He stood, using a tilt of his head to indicate the door. “Shower first, or go to the ER now. You choose.”
He feared her blackout was symptomatic of traumatic brain injury, something that contributed to about thirty percent of all injury deaths in the United States. Her confusion seemed normal given the circumstances, and other than lost time, her cognitive abilities hadn’t suffered. That didn’t mean she was safe. A cerebral hematoma could build slowly. Even as they spoke, Cynthia could be bleeding out, blood exerting pressure on brain tissue, killing cells. She needed an x-ray, or, better yet, the more informative CAT scan.
Cynthia lowered her face to the pillow, ignoring his concern. “Leave me alone. I’m fine.” Her words were muffled by the pillow, and she was clearly not fine.
“You can’t remember,” he said, staring down at her. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Cynthia lifted her head, and seemed on the verge of crying. “Why can’t I remember?” she asked in a little voice.
“Let’s talk about it on our way to the ER,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up. She shook her head, dismissing his hand. “Please, Cynthia.”
“Last night. Did you see my car, or me driving off? Because my Lexus was parked across the street from the safe house when I woke this morning.”
Frustration urged him to act the caveman and drag her ass to the car, but he didn’t want to instigate a fight, because Cynthia would fight back, and probably reinjure herself. He needed to think of some other way to convince her to seek medical attention. He sat next to her again, grimacing.
“When I walked out to the porch last night, your car was gone.” He stopped himself, regretting his words. “Sorry. I mean, whoever it was in my driveway was gone.” He silently replayed what he’d said, and wasn’t sure he’d been clear. “I mean, when I looked, the person was gone and there was no indication your car was, or had been, in the area. I don’t know if it was you….” He shrugged. “Basically.” Clear as mud. He wondered if he should give explaining another shot, but Cynthia looked as if she’d moved on already.
“And you didn’t think that was odd? Me, showing up and not coming in?”
No. Charlie schooled his features to give nothing away. In fact, he shifted his body on the couch, so she only had access to his profile. She was touching the third rail here, inching closer to broaching the topic of their kiss again, and Charlie knew if that happened, somehow, she’d find a way to make it his fault. She nudged his arm, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, suspecting the question was a trap.
“Charlie? Didn’t you think my behavior was odd?”
Her behavior was more of the same, continuing fallout for a drunken kiss she gave him, one more frustration layered on the rest. But how to tell that to Cynthia? Not possible. She didn’t want to hear it.
“A bit,” he temporized. “But then you called, and I figured…” Trap, his mind asserted. Dropping truth bombs now would be a mistake. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought I was in trouble and came to the rescue, but I was nowhere to be found.” Cynthia slumped back as she moved her crumbled suit jacket behind her head again to protect the couch leather.
To Charlie, her gloomy attitude contradicted her words. Wasn’t being rescued a good thing? And he’d hunted her down despite her ghosting him ever since she’d kissed him. That should have earned him points. Why didn’t it? Nothing about that night, or what happened since, made sense to Charlie. He’d resisted Cynthia’s kiss because she’d been drunk. He was supposed to resist.
And he had, at first, anyway. Was that what bothered her? That he’d been weak, and gave into pleasure? Circumstances had long ago dictated he take on the role of big brother, and with her two tequila shots past sober, stopping their kiss had been the right thing to do. Her reaction was proof positive of that, because apparently, his briefly kissing her back had put their friendship on the rocks.
“You’d do the same for me,” he said, and was relieved to see her nod.
She’d rescue him, because they were best friends, had history. He’d be damned if he allowed his moment of weakness to take that from them. He just hadn’t found the right way to muscle through the awkwardness, and suspected it was because the moment still felt so raw. It’d happened months ago, but his instant arousal at her touch was fresh in his mind: her hands roaming his body, clutching his ass, and her lips on his. The kiss had hit him with the speed and effect of a mule kick, so there was no wonder why the memory refused to fade.
He blamed her moan. It had triggered his breakdown of reason, and had him ignoring the booze in her bloodstream, and the surety that she’d never have kissed him sober. It had him ignoring their friendship, and his obligation to protect her. That night, months ago, Charlie had ignored everything but his need to kiss Cynthia back.
Truth was, he couldn’t help himself.
He’d lingered, and drunk her arousal as if it were intended for him, not caring about anything but finally tasting her, feeding his hunger. When he couldn’t stop, his helplessness had hit him like a cold bath of reason, clearing his mind enough to thrust Cynthia away and end their kiss, if not his panic. He’d lost control, and knew his desire for Cynthia wasn’t going away. Willpower in tatters, was it any wonder he feared revealing his feelings? She’d cut him from her life with surgical precision over a kiss she’d instigated. She’d called it a “disaster,” and said she “didn’t like it.”
Telling her he loved her would be insane.
“Let’s go to the ER,” he said, shifting to face her more squarely on the couch. “You could have a concussion.”
“That would be the least of my problems.” She gave no indication she was willing to move from her slumped position on the couch. “I’m in a ton of trouble, and I don’t know what to do.”
He told himself to be patient, to reason with her. “I’m a doctor giving you sound medical advice. Let’s go.” He nudged her shoulder, but she just rolled her eyes and slapped his hand away.
“You work with dead people. When I’m dead, I’ll listen.”
As a forensic pathologist, Charlie had a medical degree, was qualified to determine the time, manner, and cause of a death, perform autopsies, and collect medical