“We're not dressed, Lawrence. Give me a minute,” Mason called to him, clearly unperturbed.
“Thanks for that,” I grumbled as I shoved myself into the pajamas I'd been wearing the night before and forced my hair into a ponytail.
“Still looks like I've been fucking you, baby.” He winked, and I resisted the urge to throw something at him, “and yeah, I've been planning to marry you for months.”
“Oh,” my cheeks filled with the heat that, only he is able to inspire.
“Oh.” He confirmed with a teasing shrug.
Chapter 5
Claire
Masonopenedthedoor,allowing Lawrence to step through. I expected his cheeks to be red, how they often looked when he walked in on a suggestive situation. Something that happened more frequently than I liked to admit. Instead, his skin was frighteningly pale, and a hollow tinge of gray hung under his eyes.
“Mr. Sharp, we have a problem.” He held no hint of nervousness or hesitation as he spoke, only an urgency that made my stomach ache.
“What kind of problem?” Mason moved toward him, everything about his demeanor hardening in the face of a threat.
Lawrence's eyes slid to me and then back to Mason, checking that his boss wanted me to hear the details. I couldn'trightfullyblame him for that hesitance; this whole honesty thing was pretty new. That didn’t stem my resentment toward him, butMason'ssubtle nod of permission sent me reeling from fear to rage like one of those slingshot rides at an amusement park.
“The bloody kind.”
“Where?” Mason took a step back, placing his hand on the small of my back and tucking me tightly to his side.
“Right out front. I should have caught it sooner, but I wasn’t watching the feed.” A hint of sadness shone in his eyes as Lawrence looked at me beseechingly. “Claire, it's Christmas. We can tell you what's outside, but you don't need to see it. Please stay inside.”
I took a deep breath to keep from screaming at the man, “I don't care what day it is, Lawrence. I am not staying inside.”
His brow wrinkled, taking on a fatherly expression that might work on me if I wasn't already so pissed off by the idea he asked Mason for permission to speak in front of me.
“Claire, please. You've gotten into a lot of trouble lately, and I don't want you to have to deal with this too. There is no good reason to see it rather than have us tell you about it.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Mason cut me off, “She can decide for herself, Lawrence. But, ifmyopinion counts for anything, I agree that she should stay inside.”
“You haven't seen whatever is out there!” I shouted. The anger and resentment he'd caused lingered so close to the surface, ready to bubble over.
“If Lawrence says this is bad, you better believe it's bad. You cannot imagine the shit this man has seen!” The fire in his eyes wasn't angry as he yelled at me, but rather the protective instinct that made him grip me so hard I thought he might strangle me. The same instinct that nearly broke our relationship and still makes me drip with need for him. I hated myself a little as my body warmed to the idea of his protection and capacity for violence.
“I believe him, but I am not going to sit in here and cower, and that is the end of it, Mason.” I turned my chin up, meeting his gaze with a defiant glare.
“If that's what you think you want, Claire. Let's go tarnish our lovely Christmas memories.”
I nodded, ignoring the remark, and turned away from him. Mason grumbled to Lawrence as I put on my boots and coat. He had already slipped his on, probably while I was still struggling to yank on my panties. Lawrence led the way out of the front door.
The air was startlingly cold, and the sun so bright my eyes took more than a moment to adjust. When they finally did, I had one question. How the fuck did Lawrence expect to keep this from me, even if I stayed inside?
The snowfall the night before had been heavy. At least a foot of it blanketed the yard and driveway. Near the house, there was a vast, round red-stained patch, starting from the doorway and spilling over the driveway. The sight of the blood was so full of contrast I thought it looked beautiful for an unhinged moment.
“Holy hell, that's a lot of blood.” I said, and no one answered.
The smell hit me next. The metallic tang in the air was heavy and unpleasant, like meat beginning to spoil. I found it remarkable that anything could smell this time of year, and I cringed to think of the rank stench in the heat.
Finally, my gaze settled on the body. Whoever he was, he lay naked and face up. Ropes of intestines spilled out of the cut splitting his abdomen. A cheery red bow sat smack in the middle of his forehead, accenting his open, unseeing eyes.
I turned and vomited into a dead flower bed. “What the fuck?”
“Who is that?” Mason asked. His boots crunched in the snow as he approached the corpse. I counted his steps, trying to ground myself. Finally, when he got to number seven, he said, “Fuck, Gavin Wolfe.”