Lost Angeles (29 page)

There is no hope.

“Hey,” Xaine’s lips brush against the overstyled hair at my temple, causing me to startle. “You holding up?”

“Yeah,” I turn my head enough to offer up a tight smile. “I’m great.”

Xaine gives me a skeptical once-over, but nods and turns his attention to the minion powdering his nose. Someone else comes at me with a makeup sponge, but it hardly matters. By the time the stylist reapplies my lipstick, my mind is a hundred miles away. I’m fishing, casting the line and bringing it back empty, trying to remember more than mere snippets. It’s like waking up in the middle of a dream and then trying to go back to sleep so you can pick up where you left off.

Doesn’t work that way.

After Tiberius kidnapped me, all the hurt parts got buried deep.
Really
deep. But now they are being shaken loose, little by little, and there’s really only one thing—one
person—
that I can attribute it to. The only person I know who gets his rocks off on all the lockboxes inside my head, and the only person who’s got the Master Key to each and every single one.

Take-a-memory, leave-a-memory.

Benicio.

A long second later, I realize Perez Hilton just asked me what it feels like to piggyback on someone else’s fame.

I look him right in the eye. “I dunno, P, why don’t you tell me?”

Then I catch sight of a caterer carrying a platter of sandwiches and promptly abandon the couch. The clip of me snagging a hoagie and kicking a Louboutin at the stylist will end up on YouTube by nightfall with a thousand different parodies following swiftly in its wake. All I can really do at this point is offer up a shrug and filch a glass of champagne on my way off-set.

Shooting a quick glance over my shoulder, I find Xaine eyeballing me with a bemused smile on his face. This is exactly the sort of thing he’d do, so I guess he understands. He knows I’ll be back eventually.

The moment I find a quiet corner, I plop down with my sandwich and my bubbly, cramming the food down my throat as quickly as possible. I need a few minutes to think. It’s only a matter of minutes before someone comes looking for me and, at the moment,
guilty
and
hungry
are at war inside me with a vengeance, so I’ve got to spend what little time I have wisely. As soon as I wash the last bite down, I lean back against the steps I’m sitting on, letting the square edges dig into my back.

Another dead girl.

When I started out, I couldn’t have even anticipated someone like Benicio jumping into the mix. He’s the wild card, the completely uncontrollable variable in this volatile equation. Granted, I’m pretty much charging my way through this whole thing like a stampeding rhino, and I’m not getting that far with any of it. Reille and Cas are on the other side of the planet, Asher and Xaine don’t know anything about my situation, and even I don’t have access to the inner workings of my own mind.

Not only that, but the longer I tilt at windmills, the more dead women are going to turn up. I may not be able to do anything about Caspian Declan or Reille Reece or all the blank spots in my memories, but I can do something about
this
. About
him
. The rest of the answers will come in time, but with every moment that Benicio is loose, time is of the essence.

“This has to stop.” I mutter as I head back into the fray, determined to take matters into my own hands. Lonan promised me that the house was safe, that it was secure, that nobody was getting in without their express permission.

I know what I have to do.

When I sit back down next to Xaine, he hits me with all the bemused boredom he can muster. “Better?”

“Yeah. What now?”

The next hour is filled with a million different questions, each one more invasive than the last, but I answer them all with a brutal honesty and candor that borders on recklessness. It becomes a game, I think; the more private the question, the more blatant the answer. They ask about my childhood, my home life, my sex life,
our
sex life. When they start hinting around questions about what Xaine’s like in bed, I blush, turn ten shades of red even, but keep right on going.

“You’re sporting a pretty mean set of bite marks there,” one interviewer points out. It’s not a question really, but it’s leading enough, and I take the bait like I just love the taste of worms.

“Yes, they are. Xaine gave me these during our first time.” That’s the first giant lie, and I steal a glance at the vampire in question when I deliberately touch my fingertips to the two red puncture wounds. He’s got one deceptively lazy arm looped up on the back of the couch; when it flexes the slightest bit, I wonder if he’s going to call me on my bullshit. One second passes, then another, so I push a bit more, reaching out to brush my thumb adoringly across his cheek.

He doesn’t say anything, but I know he knows something is up. He knows, and he’s going to do his damndest to shut it down as soon as he realizes what I’m doing. So the second the last umbrella light goes out, I’m up and moving, ditching the final pair of too-tall heels and striding away like I’m not wearing a tight-as-sin Little Black that shows off more thigh than it really ought to. People trail behind me with cameras and microphones, because even though the official Q&A is over, there are always the ambitious bastards after the more meaty stuff.

I don’t disappoint, either. By the time I hit the front hall, I’ve wiggled the back zipper down past the crack of my ass, and the second as my foot hits the first step, the whole thing drops around my ankles. Everyone skids to a stop, because there’s not a single one of the reporters, ballsy or not, willing to chase me upstairs into Off Limits territory. That doesn’t stop them from gaping as I ascend the stairs wearing nothing but two scraps of black lace from some smutty-but-expensive Hollywood lingerie shop. The real eyebrow-raiser comes when the top half of my racy ensemble drops into the foyer two seconds later, drifting onto the marble floor with whisper.

Yeah, that’ll hit YouTube right about the time it hits XxxTube.

“Clear out, assholes,” Xaine says, stepping between them and following me into the master suite at a leisurely amble. The words sound cheerful enough, but the reporters know better. Down to the last camera-jockey, they know they have approximately ten minutes to get out of his house before shit gets broken.

In our absence, Rosa made the bed and picked up our scattered clothes. It’s night again, so the drapes are pulled back to show off the spectacularly expensive canyon view. Stooping, I locate the one discarded T-shirt that Rosa missed on the bedroom floor, pulling it on before turning to face Xaine.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Just answering their questions.” I might have been all sass and backbone in front of the cameras, but now I’m blushing over the fact that I got naked in front of that many people.

Never mind
why
I did it.

“Bullshit, sweetheart.” Xaine moves into my personal space without a second thought. “You were taunting those fuckwits.”

“I was bored.”

“You were playing with them,” he corrects. “Except I’m not sure I get what the game is.”

“I wasn’t playing with
them
—”

“Then who?”

I can’t help but hesitate before answering. “Benicio.”

Once Xaine manages to pick his jaw up, he blurts out, “What the hell for?”

“I know about the body,” I tell him. “The
other
body.”

Whatever he’s feeling right now, it contains zero guilt. “And how does that explain shaking your ass on national TV for the
serial killer
who’s got a massive boner for you?”

Instead of dignifying that gem with a response, I ask, “Where did it happen?”

There’s a hitch in his indignation parade when he answers, “The warehouse.”

“The warehouse where we found Jess?”

“Yes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Xaine, when were you going to tell me?”

He considers the question like the cameras are still rolling. “Probably never.”

“Don’t you think I should know about things like this?” I ask. “I mean, it’s kinda relevant to my interests.”

“And what are you interests?” he asks. “Before it was Reille and Cas. Now it’s luring in Benny? Then what?”

“Then we take him down,” I say. “Turn him in. Get him off the streets, stop him from murdering people because he’s obsessed with me, and hopefully recover whatever pieces of my memory he siphoned off—”

“Benicio is a dickhead,” Xaine interrupts. “A dangerous one.”

He’s used to getting his way, but I’m not done arguing. Not by a long shot. “It’s my fault those women are dead, so it’s my responsibility to make it stop.”

“Let Asher do his stupid job.” Xaine’s hand slides across my shoulder, up my neck until he’s cradling my jaw in the palm of his hand. “You just…stay here… with me.”

Before he even dips his head, I can see the intent in his eyes, along with a flash of pain. Then he shuts those eyes, shuts away the pain, sealing our lips together in a kiss that actually tastes bittersweet. My heart aches for him, but as his fingers tighten down on me and the kiss deepens, I can’t help the nagging feeling that I’m a prop, a stand-in for the thing he really wants.

“Stay here,” he mutters against my lips, “where I can protect you—”

There’s a soft but distinct clearing of the throat from the vicinity of the bedroom door, followed by the staccato of knuckles against wood. Xaine’s body tenses, and I immediately reach for him, closing my fingers down over his hip, his arm.

“Asher’s trying to get a hold of you, Xaine.” It’s Lonan, eying us both a little warily. “He says it’s important.”

“Get out, dipshit, I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” Lonan glances over his shoulder, like he’s debating whether or not to forge ahead. When he finally makes up his mind, he ignores Xaine in favor of talking directly to me. “Lore, Jess isn’t doing so well. Asher needs to talk to you.”

“That’s what the phone is for,” Xaine mutters, but the adrenaline is already snaking through me when I say, “Define ‘not well.’”

A muscle in Lonan’s jaw jumps. “She’s bleeding again. Running a high fever. He thinks maybe whatever you guys gave her just delayed the inevitable.”

“Oh, god…” It’s like someone punched me hard in the stomach, in the heart. Pulling out of Xaine’s grasp, I head straight for the closet and start grabbing clothes, whatever’s closest.

Lonan and Xaine mutter at each other as I pull on his jeans, make a mad grab for the ballerina flats. I catch snippets of the conversation, but it all boils down to the fact that Cas’s miracle shot didn’t work. It only gave Jess a temporary reprieve.

When I exit the closet, Lonan’s gone, and Xaine clenches the doorframe with one hand, fingers flexing like he wants to punch something.

“You’re going down there to watch her die.” It’s not a question or an accusation, but a softly worded warning, in case I hadn’t understood the implication in Asher’s message.

“Yes.” I step up behind him, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. The muscles in his back are bunched up, harder than rock, but he exhales and forces himself to relax even as he turns to face me. “That’s what we do, Xaine. What
humans
do.”

“Not all humans,” he says, bringing his forehead down to meet mine. “Just the good ones. And there are far less of you than you think.” His frown deepens. “I’m not sure Jess is one of them. You might be wasting your prayers.”

“I don’t pray anymore,” I tell him. “But if I did, she’d be the one I’d waste them on.”

With an irritated huff, Xaine pulls away, threading his fingers through mine and towing me down the hall and toward the stairs. “Yeah, well, don’t expect a last minute Hail Mary. I’m pretty sure we blew all chance of that on Cas’s prototype piece of nothin’.”

As ordered, the crews are in the process of cleaning up and clearing out, but Xaine plows through them, striding toward the front door. Lonan’s waiting in the driveway, his Jeep already idling. I slide into the backseat, and Xaine ducks in behind me.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Benicio,” Xaine says as we pass through the gates.

“And if I see him?” Lonan asks, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.

“Run him the fuck over and keep going.”