Toxic
Author
Carol Ericson
Reads
15.6K
Chapters
18
HarlequinChapter One
The powder-blue satin sheets weaved a silky trap around her legs, and she kicked them off. Rolling onto her stomach, she pressed her cheek against the cool pillow. She’d forgotten to turn the air on last night. And it had been hot—too hot.
Sweeping her tongue across her dry lips, she flung her arm out to the side and her hand met warm, smooth flesh. She must’ve fallen asleep before she’d ushered him out of the house, and he’d taken liberties. She hated it when they took liberties.
She prodded the hard slabs of muscle beneath her fingertips. “James, get up. You need to leave. Now.”
James groaned and edged closer, running his hand down her bare back and over the curve of her ass, his fingers dipping between her legs.
Taking more liberties.
“Negative.” She scooted away from him and cinched her fingers around his wrist. “That’s not happening.”
“Cold bitch.” He grunted and pulled a pillow over his head.
She tumbled from the bed and planted her feet on the thick carpet. Too hot to put clothes on, she sauntered through the open door into the adjoining room, tousling her long, tangled hair.
“Mickey, you awake?” In the semidarkness, she padded to his king-size bed. She perched on the edge of the mattress and touched his face, running a fingertip down his cheek.
How could he be so cold when the house was sweltering?
“Mickey?” She nudged his arm and he didn’t stir.
Icy fear clawed through her belly. She flicked on the lamp positioned above the headboard and gasped.
The light illuminated her husband’s bluish skin tone. She pressed two fingers against the pulse in his neck, and took his stiff hand in hers.
A sob welled up in her throat and she choked. “James, get the hell out of here. Mickey’s dead.”
* * *
Three months later
After fruitlessly skittering from one side of the screen door to the other, the fly settled against the mesh, content at last to be on the outside looking in. At least for now. He was probably just waiting for an opportunity to sneak inside without exerting too much effort. She couldn’t blame him.
Ronnie waved her fingers at the insect, but it didn’t budge, and the midday heat had sapped her of any energy to smack him dead.
Thinking about the heat only made it worse. She rolled the sweating glass between her hands and then dabbed her temples with the cool condensation clinging to her fingertips.
Diego called from inside the bar. “Ronnie, the applicant for the bartending job is here.”
“Send him back, Diego.” Stretching her arms over her head, she slid her legs from the table and stepped into the high-heeled sandals lined up on the wooden deck. She plucked the white tank top from her damp chest, letting it snap back into place, and ran her fingers along the waistband of her jeans.
A heavy footfall resounded on the other side of the screen door, and a voice as low and rough as a shot of Jack followed. “You comin’ in, or am I comin’ out?”
She’d follow that voice anywhere.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I conduct all my interviews out here on the deck.”
The man pushed open the door, and like a flash, the fly found its mojo and flew inside. But she’d lost interest in the fly as soon as the booted foot landed on the wood of the deck and the rest of the body emerged.
Ronnie took her sweet time drinking in the vision framed by the door, her gaze meandering up the long, denim-clad legs, hitching on the tight crotch and skimming over the white T-shirt molded over muscles upon muscles before finally settling on a face too rugged to be called handsome but just chiseled enough to be called interesting.
She liked interesting.
She lifted her arm toward him, her fingers dangling limply. “J.P. McCoy? I’m Ronnie Tate.”
“Good to meet you, Ronnie.” He took her hand and squeezed it as if trying to transfer his energy to her.
She didn’t know about energy, but something electric passed between them. Parts of her body perked up and took notice, and her panties, already damp with sweat, got wetter—and the moisture had nothing to do with the temperature outside.
His blue eyes flickered as if he’d picked up her scent. Then he dropped her hand.
“Have a seat, J.P.” She nudged the leg of the chair with her toe, pushing it out of her sphere. She’d better keep her distance from this one. She had an interview to conduct and she couldn’t do it squirming in her seat.
He waited until she sat down and then lowered his six-foot-something frame into the chair, making it look ridiculously fragile.
Get down to business, Ronnie.
Tugging on a corner of a white piece of paper, she pulled it from beneath the anchor of her phone. “I went over your application already. Looks like you have a lot of experience tending bar. Can I call one of these references on here?”
“Any one of them.”
“What brings you down to Crystal Water, Florida, from Chicago, J.P.?”
“Fun in the sun. Isn’t that the motto of Crystal Water?”
Her lips twisted. “If you believe the chamber of commerce. Unfortunately, it may be sunny, but you’ve arrived when it’s sunny, hot and wet—and that’s not much fun for any of us.”
“That’s the way I like it—hot and wet.”
She narrowed her eyes and studied his impassive face, not a smirk in sight. She’d either have a helluva good time with this one, or she’d be playing with fire. Sometimes the two weren’t mutually exclusive.
He hunched forward, bracing his forearms against his thighs. “Do you have any questions about my…experience?”
Her gaze flicked to the way his biceps bulged, the edge of a tattoo peeking from the sleeve of his T-shirt. She swallowed and squeezed her thighs together. “How are your mixology skills? We get our fair share of tourists in here, and for some reason, when people are on vacation they like their drinks in bright colors and with umbrellas stuck in them.”
“I make a mean Sex on the Beach.” He spread out a pair of hands that looked more accustomed to laying bricks than skewering cherries, but whether he knew the difference between a Sex on the Beach or a Screaming Orgasm didn’t matter. He’d have the women in here ordering those up just to hear him say the words. She wouldn’t mind hearing him say them a few more times herself.
“You’re not one of those prima donnas who follows his own recipes, are you?”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed a booted ankle over his knee. “Do I look like a prima donna?”
She kept her eyes focused on his face, avoiding his crotch, now on full display. “Hell no, but you don’t look like someone who’s going to stick around, either. I already have one waitress who took off without notice.”
“I wouldn’t do that.” He drew a cross on the left side of his white T-shirt, which served to emphasize the taut muscles beneath the thin cotton.
“You may change your mind depending on your expectations. All I got is minimum wage and as many tips as you can muster from the tourists. The regulars are a bunch of cheapskates.”
“I’ve always done okay with tips.”
No shit.
She nodded, fanning herself with his application. “Let me check out a few of your references and I’ll let you know in a day or two.”
He tapped the application. “That’s my cell phone. It’s still the same, but I’m staying down the road at the Bay View Motel now.”
“The Bay View, really?”
“It’s cheap, it’s convenient and it has a view of the bay.”
She snorted. “If you say so.”
“There is a view of some body of water.”
She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “This body of water. The bay’s around the other side.”
“I guess you’re right.” He gazed past her shoulder, those blue eyes reflecting the sky.
“This is pretty much a swamp, so I wouldn’t exactly call it crystal water, although I guess it must’ve been at one point for the town to use that name.”
He hunched forward in his chair and his angular features sharpened even more. “There’s something floating out there.”
She scooted to the edge of her chair and craned her neck to see over the railing of the deck, too lethargic to get excited over a piece of junk floating in the swamp. “Probably some trash.”
The heat and humidity hadn’t drained J.P.’s energy yet, and he pushed back from his chair and folded his arms across the railing as he leaned toward the water. “It’s red.”
Lifting her hair off the back of her neck, she rose to join him, her shoulder bumping his. She shaded her eyes and squinted at the water, spotting a red object floating on the surface. “You’re right. It’s red. Like I said, probably some trash from the beach around the other side of town, or sometimes people take boats out there.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Looked out of place.”
The reeds rustled five feet away from them, and she tugged his sleeve and pointed. “That’s not out of place.”
“Alligator.”
“Unfortunately.” She shivered and hugged herself around the waist. “Just can’t get used to those prehistoric-looking beasts.”
He turned toward her and her internal temperature rose a few degrees at his nearness. Side by side, bumping shoulders had a companionable feel. Face-to-face, her breasts nearly brushing the rigid muscles of his chest, had a whole different vibe.
He raised one eyebrow. “You’re not from here?”
“Vegas, baby.”
Did something flicker in his eyes? Probably just because she’d come off as such a know-it-all about Crystal Water. Even though she’d been here just over a year, the place had seeped into her skin, gotten under her fingernails. She knew it inside and out—the good, the bad and the sleazy, and there was a whole lotta sleazy in Crystal Water.
After Mickey’s death, she’d planned to escape this town and this bar…but apparently someone had other plans for her.
J.P. opened his mouth as if to respond, but a crash from inside the bar made them both jump.
J.P. swung around, clenching his hands into fists at his sides.
Diego’s voice rose to a shout of warning. “She’s not here, Sarah.”
Ronnie’s insides flipped, but she pasted a smile on her face. Sarah hated it when she smiled.
The screen door to the deck flew open, crashing against the wood siding of the building, and Sarah Trask, sporting five-inch heels and an haute couture dress already wilting in the heat, stormed onto the deck.
She leveled a French-manicured finger at Ronnie. “One month, bitch. You have one month to clear out.”
J.P. stiffened beside Ronnie. “Whoa.”
Sarah’s dark eyes flashed at J.P. “Who are you, the new help? Doesn’t concern you.”
“Lovely to see you, too, Sarah.” Ronnie pulled back her shoulders and broadened her smile…and her stance. “And as far as I recall, the terms stipulate that I remain in the mansion until I find a suitable place to relocate.”
Sarah’s nostrils flared. “You had a suitable place. I have it on good authority that Gator Flynn offered you a sweet deal at one of his complexes.”
“A sweet deal with all kinds of strings attached.” Ronnie tossed her head, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “Not suitable at all.”
“Since when?” Sarah’s lipsticked mouth stretched into a sneer.
Diego poked his head out the door and rolled his eyes, a smile playing around his lips. “Sorry, Ronnie. The other one’s on his way.”
“Oh, good, double the fun.”
Sarah’s brother barreled onto the deck and joined his indignation to his sister’s. “You could’ve accepted Flynn’s offer.”
“Oh, hey, Adam, join the party.” She waved a hand at J.P. “I’d introduce you, but J.P.’s new in town, and I don’t want to scare him off.”
“Ha!” Sarah hugged her designer bag to her flat chest. “We’re not the ones he should fear.”
Adam shook his finger at J.P. “You’d better watch yourself around this whore.”
J.P. emitted a low growl from the back of his throat, and Ronnie widened her eyes. The ugly word didn’t even faze her. She’d heard worse from these two.
He took one step toward Adam and his pointing finger, and Adam dropped his hand and tucked it behind his back.
“You’d better watch your mouth around the lady.”
Ronnie raised an eyebrow—a real-life protector.
Adam sniffed and thrust out his chin. “Ronnie Tate is no lady. She’s a murderer.”