“I’m Mouser,” he said. “And your name’s Janie?”
“Jamie,” Dillon corrected. “Jamie Kincaid. Nate’s sister.”
Mouser took an instinctive step back from her, looking rattled. “I didn’t know he had any sisters. I thought he hatched from a snake’s egg.”
“Cousin,” she said, startled. “We were brought up together.”
“Then you knew what he was like,” Mouser said, nodding. “Just ignore Dillon. He gets like this when someone cheats at cards, especially when they do it badly. It insults his intelligence. That’s why we’ve got Tomas over there in the mud. He’s not going to make you stand out here in the alleyway and freeze to death.”
“Who says?” But with that caustic remark Dillon moved back inside. Leaving the door open behind him.
“That’s as close to an invitation as you’re gonna get,” Mouser said. “Better get moving before he changes his mind and locks us both out in the snow.”
The room beyond the door was hot and smoky, and Mouser closed the door behind her, shutting out the cold. Shutting off escape.
The place was a mess. They’d been playing poker around an old table, and chips and cards lay scattered on the floor. Two chairs were overturned, bottles of beer lay spilled on the floor, and Dillon stood in the corner, smoking a cigarette and looking at her out of hooded eyes.
She stifled a cough. The room was a sty, but what else would she expect of someone like him?
“So you’re Nate’s sister,” Mouser said, getting a better look at her in the smoky light. “Not much of a resemblance, is there?”
“Cousin,” she corrected him again. “We were just brought up together. And I’m adopted.”
“Lucky you,” Mouser said obscurely. He glanced up at Dillon. “Maybe I’ll just leave you two together to relive old times.”
“Not likely,” Dillon said.
“Well, then, to work out your differences. Be nice to her, Killer. It’s not every day you have a pretty waif show up on your doorstep. Be a hero for a change,” Mouser said, his voice stern.
“Jamie’ll tell you that’s not in my nature. Scrape Tomas off the sidewalk on your way, will you? I don’t want any more complications tonight. She’s enough.”
“Will do. But I’m warning you, I expect to find her safe and happy next time I see her,” Mouser said.
“She’ll be safe enough,” he said. “I can’t be responsible for ‘happy.’”
“Funny, that’s not what your women say,” Mouser murmured.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not one of my women,” Dillon snapped.
“Oh, I noticed,” Mouser said in a cheerful voice.
“I notice everything. Don’t let him browbeat you, Jamie. He’s mostly bark and very little bite.”
That wasn’t what she remembered. But the door closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the smoky, trashed room.
He moved then, picking up the overturned chairs on his way to the sink. They were in a kitchen of sorts, with a microwave, a hot plate, a tin sink and an old refrigerator. Which would undoubtedly be filled with beer. The old oak table in the center of the room took up most of the space, and he had to come way too close to her to reach the sink. He made no effort to avoid her, and she had to stumble back, out of his way.
He was washing the blood off his knuckles, and she stared at his hands. They were big hands, strong, with a webbing of little nicks and scars. His knuckles were skinned—it hadn’t just been his victim’s blood. He didn’t seem to react to any pain—he just rinsed the blood off and dried the raw knuckles with a paper towel. He tossed it in the overflowing trash can by the sink, but it missed and floated down to the floor in a lazy, graceful swirl.
He turned then, leaning against the sink to look at her, letting his eyes run from the top of her head to her wet, aching feet.
It was very nice of Mouser to call her a pretty waif. She couldn’t disagree with the waif part, but “pretty” was pushing it. Particularly right now, when she hadn’t slept for two days, wore no makeup, and her pale brown hair straggled around her face. She’d never been Dillon’s type, thank God, even at her best, and at her worst she was definitely safe. If anyone could be safe around Dillon.
“You can spend the night,” he said abruptly. “It’s after three, and I’m not in the mood to haul your car out of a ditch. Tomorrow I’ll get someone to tow it here, I’ll fix it, and you can get the hell out of here.”
“You’ll fix it?” she repeated.
“I’m a grease monkey, remember? I can fix any car. I just don’t happen to have a tow truck. I count on other people to drag them to me.” He opened the fridge, but to her surprise she couldn’t see any beer. They must have drunk it all. “I suppose you came to collect Nate’s stuff. Fine with me—it’s been just taking up room.”
“Then why wouldn’t you send it?”
“Couldn’t be bothered.” He took a carton of milk, opened it and drank.
She wondered what he’d do if she fainted. She was tempted—she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, and after her long, cold walk she was too hot, dizzy, ready to collapse, and he hadn’t even offered her a chair. She should walk to the nearest one and sit, but for some reason she couldn’t move.
She realized he was looking at her again. His eyes were just as cold, just as blue as she remembered. “You look like shit,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He pushed away from the sink. “Come on. I don’t feel like carrying you upstairs if you pass out.”
He was more observant than she realized. There were at least three closed doors leading off the small kitchen. He opened one to reveal a dark, narrow flight of stairs.
He took them two at a time. She hauled herself up with the handrail, slowly, knowing he was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.
He didn’t move out of her way when she reached the second floor. He moved to take her arm, and she jerked away from him in sudden panic.
She could feel nothing beneath her—she was falling, and she was going to break her neck on these rickety stairs, and then what would her mother do, and what the hell did she care, and…
He caught her arm and yanked her back onto solid ground. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” he snapped.
He was very strong. Stronger than she remembered. She’d have bruises on her arm.
“You can let go of me now,” she said.
“And have you take a header down the stairs? I don’t think so.” He moved down the hallway, dragging her after him.
The bare lightbulb overhead did little to illuminate their way. The place smelled of gasoline and cooking and all sorts of other smells she didn’t even want to think about. He pushed open a door and pulled the string from overhead. The light didn’t come on.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Stay here.”
At least he let go of her. She stood in the hallway, waiting, while he disappeared behind another door. When he came back he was carrying a sleeping bag and a small lamp. He pushed past her into the room, and in a moment the light came on. He’d plugged it in and set it on the floor next to the mattress that lay there, the only thing in the small, bare, dismal room.
He tossed the sleeping bag on the mattress.