You Don't Know Jack by Adrianne Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

new rule: No matter what, don't look down.
    My cheeks burned, melting my makeup. I resisted the impulse to mop at it. I had bigger worries. If Apollo was here, he had to be in one of the three stalls. I couldn't very well peek under them to see if I recognized his shoes, and since he'd warned me not to talk, I couldn't give him a shout out. No telling who might be in the other stall. Stone?
    But it was a risk I had to take. Apollo was missing.
    My Dolly Parton impersonation notwithstanding, I called in my best Robert De Niro gangster, "eh, Apollo, you in here?"
    That bagged a couple of sideways glances from the three women, er, guys at the urinal, but I kept my gaze high. I moved closer to the stalls. Only the end one, I realized, was occupied. I slipped into the middle one, pretended to drop something, then squatted as if I was picking it up. My gaze was locked on the shoes in the next stall. Black patent, size fourteen fuck-me pumps. Just like Apollo's, except one of the six-inch stilettos had a rusty, gooey smudge. Not Apollo. His shoes wouldn't dare attract goo.
    Damn. Where had he gone? Backstage looking for me? I sent another text. Dialed his number, too. No response. I sneaked backstage again. I could hear the band playing Britney's "Womanizer" and felt certain Bruce was on stage and not in his dressing room, but checked anyway. Empty. I thought about snooping for clues, but the need to find Apollo dragged me to the eavesdrop room. A couple of performers were there changing costumes and repairing makeup. No Apollo.
    As I reached the violent-sex room, I heard someone behind me say, "Has anyone seen Dolly Parton? She missed her number."
    My heart skipped. I shoved inside the dressing room and pressed my ear to the door. Footsteps nearing. Yikes. Hide! I pivoted away from the door and my mouth dropped open. What the hell? Makeup and brushes were strewn everywhere. Chairs were overturned. Costumes had been tossed into a heap on the floor. If wrecking a room is part of violent sex, count me out. I'm not into pain. Or destruction.
    I bent to right the nearest chair and froze as I realized the swatch caught on one of the metal legs was a starburst tie. Apollo! My heart felt ice-packed. With trembling fingers, I freed the tie — the dead man's tie — praying that wasn't an omen. My lungs ached for a breath I couldn't pull in. I began to stand and bumped my foot against a shoe. My scalp prickled. I wasn't alone. I looked down. A black patent leather heel was attached to a foot which was attached to legs poking from beneath the costumes that had fallen or been dumped onto the floor.
    I whimpered and dropped to my knees, praying it wasn't Apollo. I grabbed at a handful of fabric, but something tacky adhered to my palm, to the costumes. A dark, rusty looking liquid like splattered paint.
    No... blood.
    A scream climbed my throat. Get help! Get help! I scrambled up and wrenched the door open. Another performer, a transvestite, the first ugly one I'd seen, blocked my exit. I yelled, "Help!" At least I meant to. But nothing came out.
    Then I realized the ugly drag queen had very familiar green eyes — eyes that could "cure" a woman of everything but her addiction to him.
    Stone? No. I had to be imagining it. The hysteria making me wish he were here when he wasn't.
    She, er, he said, "What's wrong?"
    Bass guitar voice. It was Stone. My knees buckled.

CHAPTER FIVE
     
    My love/hate relationship with Stone Maddox started when I was five-years-old. He was seven, sure of himself the way a lot of cops' kids are, confident that he could handle whatever situation came along, then proving it by saving my kitten, Buttercup, from a vicious neighborhood dog.
    I've been crazy nuts for Stone ever since. He feels the same about me. Sometimes. Sort of. So, why have I married two guys who aren't Stone?
    Commitment issues. Not his. Mine. According to Stone my incomplete tattoo had nothing to do with lack of pain tolerance. According to Stone the