"Vin...let me take you out of here."
"She's in danger."
"Vin, look at me." The guy pointed to both of his own eyes. "Look at me. You are going home now. You got your head knocked around in that hall, and apparently you just gave passing out some serious consideration. I get the no-doctor bit, fine. But you're talking out your ass if you think I'm going to let this shit go on any longer. Come with me - now."
Damn it, this fuzzy aftermath, with the disorientation and confusion, with his fear about what he'd said and his feeling out of control - shit, even the WTF expression on Jim's face...he remembered all of this. So many times...Vin had been through this so many times, and he hated it.
"You're right," he said, trying to let it all go. "You're absolutely right."
He could always come back and talk to her later, when things weren't so fresh. Like tomorrow. He'd come back tomorrow as soon as the club opened. It was the best he could do.
Getting off the stool carefully, he went over to where she'd left his business card on the makeup counter. Taking his pen out, he wrote two words on the back and then looked at all the bags. He knew exactly which duffel was hers. Out of the pink-and-purple Ed Hardys and the Gucci and the two identical Harajuku Lovers...there was a plain black one with not so much as a Nike logo on it.
After tucking the card inside that one, he strode for the door, his shoulders aching, his right hand starting to pound, his ribs sending him a sharp shooter every time he took a breath. The real shitkicker, though, was the headache between his temples that had nothing to do with the fight. He always had one after...whatever the hell that was.
Out in the hall, he looked both ways and saw no sign of Marie-Terese.
For a moment, the compulsion to find her struck strong and hot, but when Jim took his arm, he put his faith in the other man's rationality and allowed himself to be led over to the rear exit of the club. "Wait here."
Jim knocked on the manager's door, and when the guy came out, there was another round of thank-yous and then Vin found himself breathing cold, clear air. Christ...what a night.
Chapter 15
In the club's parking lot, Vin walked through rows of cars, but he wasn't tracking much...at least not until he caught sight of the guy with the mustache and glasses who'd witnessed the fight from the head of the corridor. Fortunately, as they all passed each other, the man ducked his eyes like he didn't want any trouble and continued pulling on his parka, like he'd gone out to a car to get the thing.
When they got to the truck, Vin slid into the passenger seat and carefully rubbed his aching face.
Letting his head fall back, he despised the spinning, twirling tangle of pain that was making his skull scream. And the headache got even worse as it dawned on him that whereas he was headed back home, Marie-Terese had returned to work. Which meant she was with other men at this very moment, giving them -
He had to stop going there before he went totally mad.
Looking out the window, he watched streetlights flare and fade as Jim took lefts and rights and stopped at intersections on the way to the Commodore.
When they rolled to a halt in front of the high-rise, Vin released the seat belt and popped the door open. He had no idea whether Devina was going to be at the duplex or whether she'd have headed over to the place she still kept in the old meatpacking district of Caldie.
As he hoped she wasn't in his bed, he felt like a bastard.
"Thanks," he said to Jim as he stepped out. Before he shut the door, he leaned in. "Life is too frickin' crazy sometimes, it really is...You never know what's going to happen, do you."
"You got that right." The guy ran his rough hand through his hair. "Listen, go be with your woman. Make up with her, okay?"
Vin frowned as something dawned on him. "Is this it? For you and me? Are we done now?"
Jim exhaled like he was disappointed his relationship advice was being ignored. "No, not hardly."
"Why won't you just tell me what you want?"
Jim just braced his forearm on the top of his steering wheel and stared across the seat. In the silence, his pale blue eyes seemed ancient. "I told you why I'm here. Go be nice to Devina and then get some sleep before you fall on your ass."
Vin shook his head. "Drive safe."
"I will."
The truck took off and Vin went up the graduated steps to the Commodore's lobby entrance. With the swipe of a pass card, he opened one of the doors and walked into the marble lobby. Over at the sign-in desk, the older, overnight security guard glanced up, caught a look at Vin's puss, and dropped the pen he was holding.
Guess the swelling was kicking in. Which would explain why one of Vin's eyes was having trouble blinking.
"Mr. diPietro...are you - "
"Hope you have a quiet night," Vin said as he strode to the elevator doors.
"Thank...you."
On the way up the building, Vin got a good gander at what the security guard had gone penless over. In the darkened mirrors of the elevator, he stared at his busted nose and the scratch on his cheek and the beginnings of the shiner he was going to have in the morning -
All at once, his face started to pound with the beat of his heart. Which made him wonder if he hadn't seen his reflection whether it would have stayed quiet.
Up on the twenty-eighth floor, he stepped out into the hall and got his key ready. While he worked the lock, he had the sense that his life had taken a beating tonight along with that college kid. Everything felt off. Dislocated.
He hoped it wasn't the start of a trend.
Vin opened his door, took a listen, and got hit with a whole lot of exhaustion. There was no security alarm to deactivate, and from the second floor, he could hear the television mumbling: She was home. Waiting for him.
Shutting himself in, he turned the lock, engaged the alarm, and eased back against the wall. When he could stand it, he looked up the marble staircase and watched the blue flicker of whatever show was on.
It sounded like an old movie, some kind of Ginger Rogers-Fred Astaire flying-hoof special. Guess he had to go up and face the music, so to speak.
As forties-era standards rippled out of the bedroom, he pictured Devina propped up on the Frette pillowcases, wearing one of her wispy chiffon nightgowns. When he walked in, she would be shocked at his face and would try to nurse him - and she'd want to apologize for bailing from the club in the same way she'd made up for being unreachable the night before.
Or she would try to. He didn't feel like having sex tonight.
At least...not with her.
"Shit," he muttered.
Damn him to hell, but he wanted to drive right back to that club, but not to try to rehab Marie-Terese's opinion of him. He wanted to pull out five hundred dollars and buy some time with her. He wanted to kiss her and pull her against his body and run his hands up the insides of her thighs. He wanted his tongue in her mouth and his chest against her br**sts and he wanted her gasping and wet. He wanted her to let him take her.
The fantasy got him instantly hard - but it didn't last, neither the hot images nor the erection.
What killed the fantasy was the memory of her in that fleece. She'd been so small. So...fragile. Not an object to be bought, but a woman in a brutal business, leveraging her body for cash.
No, he didn't want to be with her like that.
As the raw mechanics of the way she earned her money tackled him, Vin thought, of course she was in danger. Look at what had happened tonight. Men couldn't be trusted when their cocks were involved, and he himself was guilty of that kind of penile thinking. Just now, for example.
Desperate for a drink, Vin headed for the bar in the living room. Devina had turned the lights off, but the electric fireplace was on and the flames flickered around the walls, turning them liquid and making the shadows move like they were tracking his stride through the room.
With his f**ked-up punching hand, he poured himself a bourbon, and as he drank it, his lip hurt on one side.
Looking around, he measured everything he had bought with money he'd made, and in the shifting illumination it seemed to melt around him, the wallpaper dripping off in oozing sheets, the shelves sagging, the books and the paintings morphing into Dali-esque figments of their normal selves.
Amidst the distortion, his eyes went to the ceiling and he imagined Devina up above him.
She was just one more thing he'd purchased, wasn't she: He paid for her with clothes and travel and jewelry and spending money.
And he'd bought that diamond yesterday not because wanted her to have the stone as a token of love - it was just one more part of an ongoing transaction.