Syn got out and came around the car. “Well, whatever it is, we’ll go together.”
As he offered her his hand, she hesitated. And then she took his palm.
“Come on,” he murmured, “let’s see what comes up for you.”
Jo smiled a little. And then she nodded, the pair of them starting off through the brambles, explorers of a landscape that felt utterly foreign and vaguely hostile.
Jo was not surprised as her headache came back and settled in.
But she was surprised about how much it meant to have this man by her side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
As Mel stopped in front of what obviously was the entry to her place, she unlocked a dead bolt and there was a hollow echo in some kind of big interior space. Butch didn’t focus on either. He was too busy wondering about the damn door. The thing seemed to be made of the same cast iron panels that were used on Navy ship hulls, the bolt heads fat as a man’s knuckles, the horizontal and vertical reinforcements making him wonder just what the hell was on the other side.
And he frowned as she put her shoulder into the bulk to open the way in.
“You want some help with that?” he asked.
“I’ve got it.”
When she continued to struggle, he put his palm on the cold metal and pushed. The hinges, which were as big as his damn forearm, squeaked and groaned, and all that was revealed as the thing broke away from its reinforced jambs was a whole lot of pitch black. Like she lived in outer space.
Glancing over his shoulder, some instinct made him note the details of the basement hall—not that there was much to memorize, just blank walls, a low ceiling, and a black-and-white linoleum floor. Serviceable fixtures mounted at regular intervals were stocked with the new kind of lightbulbs that threw dull, listless light.
The building they were in had been a surprise. It was mostly commercial space, with this cellar underground just a bunch of storage areas with corporate names in plastic plates next to each unit. And P.S., none of the other doors were like Mel’s Game of Thrones prop.
“At least I know you’re safe here,” he said dryly.
“It is my sanctuary.”
On that note, she walked into the interior, her body swallowed down by the darkness’s gullet. Just as he was getting worried about her, there was a flicking sound, and then light bathed an interior that had a totally open floor plan.
Mel motioned with her hand. “Come in, please.”
Butch stepped over the threshold. “Holy… shit.”
The door closed of its own volition with a banging sound, and he almost jumped—but that would have been a pussy move. And then he was distracted by the crib. The walls and floor of the three thousand or so square feet were painted black, and four concrete pylons kept the ceiling from caving in, making him feel like he’d shrunk and was standing under a coffee table. A sitting area was delineated by a large area rug, with a sofa, three chairs, and a coffee table—in all white leather—arranged on it like a glamorous Hollywood meeting was about to happen. There was also a king-sized bed over against one wall, with black satin sheets and a throw blanket of some fur-like persuasion slipping off one corner of the mattress. The bathroom was likewise fully in view, a Victorian claw-foot tub set next to a sink and a toilet, all of which were white. Oh, and the galley kitchen was directly across the way, the refrigerator, stove, and sink running down the wall and fronted by a barrier of white countertop.
But none of that was what stunned him.
Clothes took up at least half the square footage. There were tall racks with evening gowns. Medium ones with slacks. Shorter sets of blouses and skirts. Shelves with forward tilts displayed stilettos, wedges, boots, and flats. Birkin bags, and Chanel purses, and Judith Leiber minaudières sat on Lucite tables, their cloth storage bags folded under them, the boxes they’d come in like thrones for their glory. A modern era, floor-length, store-worthy mirror—the kind with the wings on the left and right that you could angle to inspect the rear of yourself—was set upon a white shag carpet.
“I have a shopping addiction,” Mel said sadly. “It started when I was a model.”
“This is epic.” He walked over and pulled out a blood-red crêpe de chine gown from its lineup of colleagues. “Dior?”