“They are?”
Her long-legged walk nearly left him behind. “Sure. Just as evil lurks, so does good. But I prefer to rely on my own ability.” She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “It’d be nice if you’d have a little faith in my ability, too.”
“I see your capability.” He beat her to the car so he could open her door for her. “What you don’t understand is that when you care for someone, every awful possibility that could steal them away from you always comes to mind. It makes people worry, even when they know someone is skilled.”
Proving she’d gotten used to his gentlemanly tendencies, she sat in the car without comment.
Luther closed the door and walked around to his own side to get in. Gaby stayed silent.
It was the oddest thing, Luther thought, trying to seduce a woman who preferred insults to flattery, who kept an illegal and lethal blade strapped to the small of her back, who spoke as candidly as a porn star but shied away from any signs of affection.
“So.” He started the car and steered out to the street. “How about you tell me what you have planned, and I’ll do my utmost not to interfere.”
“No.”
The phlegmatic, cool refusal dismantled Luther’s quiescent mood. His muscles contracted and his teeth came together.
One of these days, he swore to himself, she’d stop treating him like an afterthought.
“It’s possible, you spiteful little irritant, that I could be of assistance to you.”
“Little? I’m almost as tall as you.”
She didn’t dispute the irritation or spiteful attributes. “I outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds. And the few inches I have over you are all muscle, compared to your skin and bones.”
“So you’re bigger. That doesn’t make you better—at anything.” Remaining apathetic, she shook her head. “And no, it’s not even remotely possible that you’d assist me. Trust me.”
Reminding himself of her incommensurable life and attitude, Luther sought an even, convincing tone. “I do. Trust you, that is. And before you start rolling your eyes or threatening to throw up, try to understand that worry and mistrust are two different things, ruled by two different emotions. Okay?”
“That still doesn’t mean you’d like my plan.”
Which must mean her plan was dangerous and foolhardy.
For the next mile, they rode in silence. Luther had almost lost the fight for equanimity when Gaby finally spoke.
“If you really trust me, then give me three days.”
Where it concerned Gaby, so much could happen in seventy-two hours. “Why?” Suspicions rose like sharp needles. “What happens in three days?”
“It’s just that I have details to work out.” She reached back and adjusted the knife at her back, reminding Luther that nothing with Gaby would ever be mundane. “After that, after I’ve given it a lot of thought, I’ll decide if I should share with you or not.”
Fuck. It wasn’t easy, but Luther managed a nod. “Fair enough.” A compromise was the most he’d get from Gaby, at least for now. “Just tell me, will you be in any danger in the next three days?”
Putting her head back against the seat, she stared out the window. “Danger lurks everywhere, cop, you should know that by now. Sometimes it comes calling whether I want it to or not. Practice that hyped faith in my ability, and maybe you’ll do less worrying, okay?”
Giving up, but only for the moment, Luther nodded. “I’ll try.”
As Gaby relaxed, it occurred to Luther that her idea of danger and his were worlds apart.
Not being an idiot, he’d keep an eye on her, and when he couldn’t, he’d enlist the aid of others.
Tonight, he’d make a visit to Mort.
He wanted to check up on Bliss anyway, and while there, he’d recruit Mort and Ann for his cause.
Whether Gaby liked it or not—and for a certainty, she wouldn’t—she’d have backup.
That’s what friends were for, even when you denied having friends.
Chapter 12
While contriving her next move, Gaby wrote with a near electric ebullience. The pages disembogued, the drawings came to life, and within a few days, she’d all but finished the latest graphic novel.
All she needed now was an ending, but she couldn’t write the ending until things . . . ended.
Knowing what she would do to ensnare and extirpate the menace, she’d already depicted herself as a haphazard hooker who, as the graphic novel progressed, dealt harsh commination with grisly precision.
Satisfied with her latest efforts, she sat back on her stool and stretched her cramped muscles. When she relaxed again, her eyes caught on her last sketch.
Lush, colorful details were nonetheless menacing. Looking more closely at the scene of conflict between a looming, hyperbolized version of herself, and a bloodcurdling depictionof her nemesis, she saw Luther’s faint outline in the background.
His usually compassionate eyes watched her with nocent intent.
What the hell? Gaby picked up the page. She didn’t even recall putting him there. Even in her imagination, he intruded.
Laying that page aside, she stood and picked up each visual for the novel. Like a dark, heralded sidekick, she found Luther’s form repeatedly interwoven into the story and graphics.
Damn it. Somehow, regardless of how she tried to block him, he appeared on almost every page, sometimes advising, sometimes protecting, sometimes . . . enticing.
And a few times, his presence served to portend her demise.
Slapping the pages aside, needful of fresh air, Gaby stood and crossed to a window. Night had fallen with atramentous gravity, enshrouding the moon and stars, smothering the weak illumination of streetlamps and blinking neon bar signs.
Pressing a fist to her chest, Gaby tried to deny the growing ache there, but the severity of it refused to be modified. Luther had no place in her novels.
He had no place in her head or heart either.
And yet, she couldn’t rid herself of him. Luther might believe her show of feigned indifference, but Gaby never lied to herself.
He meant far too much to her.
In her dreams, Luther emblematized a desperate craving for normalcy. For caring.
And love.
He was everything she wanted to be, but wasn’t.
Well, except that Luther was all male, and given his preposterous attraction to her, she was thankful for the femaleness she’d often scorned.
Leaving the window, Gaby went into the bathroom and did her best to scrub the ink stains from her fingers. She trimmed her nails, cleaned her teeth, combed her hair, inspected her rumpled clothing and, with a shrug, found her ankle boots. She stepped into them and left her room.
On her way out, to the hookers who greeted her, Gaby said, “I’ll be working tonight, too, just so you know.”
Betty paused in comical confusion. “Workin’ on what, sugar?”
Gesturing down her own body with her hand, Gaby said, “You know. What you do.”
Betty’s eyes widened. “The hell ya say.”
Posy twittered a laugh, saw Gaby remained unsmiling, and coughed. “But, Gaby, you ain’t never . . . well, you know. You ain’t never done that.”
Gaby examined a nail. “Yeah, so? How hard can it be?”
Opal stepped in front of the other women. “What are you up to, girl?”
“Don’t worry about it. We all know I’m not competition. But I have my reasons, so just tell me where I should
