Haunted. Gena Showalter
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—making her sigh dreamily.
She was in big trouble. “I’m not interested in dating anyone, just so we’re clear.”
He glared down at her. “Good, because I was thinking about asking out your friend.”
Oh, ouch. Yet wasn’t that always the case? Men slobbered all over Lana like babies who’d just found fuzzy candy on the floor.
“Good!” she said with a huff. “Rude isn’t my type.” She turned, giving him her back, and marched out.
“But then I met you and changed my mind,” she thought she heard him grumble from behind her.
3
Harper was utterly baffled when Levi gave her painting a once-over, asked a single question, then turned and left her apartment. He did this after she’d overcome her urge to vomit and placed the wretched canvas—though perfectly painted—in the heart of her living room, just for his benefit. Sure he’d paused to eye Lana, as any man with a pulse would have done—and even some without, surely—but he hadn’t so much as called out a token “Don’t leave town.” Or even a very necessary “I’m on the case, no worries.”
The door slammed ominously behind him, echoing throughout the somewhat dilapidated two-bedroom apartment with plush furnishings Lana had restored with loving care, a hobby of hers. Their decorating style was Match Smatch. Every piece was an odd color and shape, and nothing harmonized.
Levi’s question played through her mind. “You said there was blood. Where is it?”
The answer was simple. Seeing the blood on the canvas freaked her out, so every morning, after her subconscious mind forced her to add it back, she erased it, leaving the walls pristine and clean.
“That has to be a record for you,” Lana said, her Lithuanian accent nonexistent because her darker emotions weren’t yet engaged.
Harper purposely kept her back to the gruesome scene of torture and death she had created and kept her gaze on her friend. “I have no idea what you mean.”
Had the painting disgusted Detective Snarls? Was he even then searching for his handcuffs, intending to take Harper into lockup? No. No way. He would have dragged her with him, not allowing her out of his sight. He wasn’t the type to cross his fingers and hope she stayed put. Even when he’d left her alone in his living room, he’d kept his bedroom door open so that he could hear her movements.
“I’ve seen you scare off a man within an hour of meeting you, but five minutes? You must have done something really special to this one.”
Harper snorted. “Wasn’t like I asked him to meet my parents or anything.” And, bonus, she never would. Three days after her fourteenth birthday, her dad had taken off and never looked back. After that, Mommy Manners had forced her to become even more involved in pageants, and Harper had eventually cracked, poisonous words she still regretted spilling out. Though she’d tried to make amends, her mother hadn’t spoken to her in years. “But you know, he could have had the decency to invite himself to breakfast.” They had details to hammer out, right? “I mean, he wants to ask you out. Shouldn’t he try to butter me up or something, so I’ll put in a good word for him?”
“Uh, no, no, he not be asking me out.”
“He said he would.”
“Well, he lied or changed his mind because that man has a jones for a hot blonde with a taste for destroying fairy-tale princess.”
Hope fluttered through her, causing her heart to skip a beat. “First, the taste is justified. Sleeping Beauty sucks. Evil showed up and instead of fighting she took a nap.”
“Is that reason enough for you to buy figurines of her likeness just to smash when you’re angry?”
“Yeah. And second,” she continued, “there’s just no way you’re right about the cop wanting me. But go ahead and tell me why you think so, beginning once again with how smoking hot you think I am and ending with how you think he’s willing to drop to his knees and beg me to go out with him, and don’t leave out a single detail.”
Lana rolled her eyes. The bold shadow she wore gave those eyes an exotic, smoky look, extending all the way to her temples in glittery points. “You are hot. He will beg. You will say no—and don’t try to deny it. I noticed your antiman campaign. I will call you stupid. You will paint a mustache on my face while I sleep. I will carve the legs out from under your bed. We will laugh. The end. Now, tell. Will he help you or not? Because I will hurt him if not.”
Okay, so it wasn’t the story she’d hoped for but it was true nonetheless. “I might have you hurt him, anyway. After I’m done with him, of course.” He was surly with a capital S-U-R-L-Y, glaring at her when she’d entered his apartment after he’d clearly invited her in—with his eyes. “He needs someone to turn his frown upside down. By hanging him out of a window by his ankles.”
“Just say a word, and it is done.”
Oh, how she adored Lethal Lana.
They’d met in junior school, when Lana’s family moved to the States, and their instant connection had changed the very fabric of Harper’s life. Harper, the “lady” of her mother’s dreams, had been fascinated by Milana Buineviciute, the wild child of her mother’s nightmares.
A (now reformed) smoker, drinker and full-time cusser who never backed down from a fight, Lana had taught Harper how to get down and dirty with brass knuckles and steel-toed boots. Harper had taught Lana to channel the jagged edges of her emotions into art, and the exchange had bonded them.
They balanced each other, even in looks. Lana’s hair was naturally dark, almost jet, but she’d bleached the straight-as-a-board strands and then dyed them neon red, a color that complemented her cream-and-rose complexion perfectly. Her features were bold, aggressive, and yet her green eyes were always at half-mast, a sultry invitation to peel away her clothing and have your wicked way with her. Or so Harper had gathered from any man who’d ever looked at her.
Even as fatigued as Lana currently appeared, and had, for these past few weeks, with bruises marring the delicate tissue under her eyes, her lips chapped from constantly being chewed, and the weight she’d dropped from her already slender frame, the girl was a showstopper.
“Maybe we should move,” Harper said. “We’ll just pack my precious valuables and your crap and—”
“No!” Lana shouted, then repeated softly, “No. I stay here.”
A relieved breath escaped her.
After Harper had snapped out of her first blackout and seen what she’d painted, she had walked the streets trying to reason things out. Lost in her thoughts, she’d unknowingly entered the worst part of town. She’d ended up in front of this building, and a desire to live here had instantly consumed her. She’d raced home to tell Lana, and Lana had paled, burst into tears for no reason. Well, there had been a reason, but she still refused to say.
Eventually Harper managed to talk her friend into subletting their place and moving here. But where Harper had thrived, Lana had declined all the more. And yet, she couldn’t be dragged out with a tank.
Harper felt guilty about that, she did, but she had no idea what to do.
“By the way, we are not done talking about the cop,” Lana said, calm now and rubbing her hands together with glee. “I saw the way you looked at him so I must ask. By ‘done with him’ did you mean you will hurt him when you jump into his arms and beg him to marry you?”
Harper rolled her eyes, and it was then that she noticed the black shadow creeping along the walls of the living room. Dread poured through her veins, hot and as slick as oil. She knew that shadow, had battled it each time a blackout descended, and knew it would crawl down the walls, consume the entire room and try to swallow her