She couldn’t breathe. Neither could she rip her gaze away from the monstrosity in front of her. A male body on its side. The face was hamburger meat, with the remnants of an ear dangling toward the area that used to be a neck. White spots stark against the dark red and black.
The room swayed.
She reached out for the closest chair.
“Shit.” Morgan grabbed her and guided her to the chair, pushing her down into it. “Sit and get a hold of yourself.”
So hard, so angry. So very mean. “Why did you show me that?” she asked, staring at the image, trying desperately to not find anything in there that would trigger recognition – a name, a familiar face that she’d no longer see. “Why would you do something like that?”
“Do you know him?”
“Know him?” she turned a bewildered gaze to Morgan. “How could anyone know him? I couldn’t even tell it’s a male.”
He crouched down so he could look deep into her eyes, as if searching to see the truth in her gaze. “That’s not true. Someone who’s worked on enough bodies as you have should be able to tell the sex of this man.”
She turned her gaze back to the image, noting the flat chest, built up pectoral muscles, the hair. The silver nipple ring, not one she recognized, and she’d seen many. “Yes, I can see it’s a man,” she snapped. “But I wasn’t looking to see that. I was… distracted… by the rest of him.”
With a deep breath, she reached out and flipped the image over, then spun in her chair to look at him. “Who is it?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment. He picked up the image and stared at it, then walked over to switch a second chair around before sitting down on it backwards to stare at her.
“Maybe Billy.”
She gasped, an icy chill washing through her. Just as fast as the cold slid down her, heat raced up. “And you thought I’d know that was him?” she asked in shock. “How could I possibly know that?”
He pursed his lips and pulled out a second picture from his jacket pocket. The one he’d planned to show her from the beginning. He dropped it on the table.
“What about this one?”
Jazz reached out and picked it up slowly. She studied the long male body lying on his stomach. The head up at the top of the image was mostly off the page but from the bit showing, she could see it was the same male. From this perspective, the male appeared leaner and longer. She studied the hairy legs and large bare feet with the odd bruising pattern, then let her gaze rest on the bare buttocks and the small tat on the left cheek.
Her breath caught in the back of her throat. A small dragon flew toward the crevice between the cheeks. Her signature tat. One she only used for lovers. Only lovers she cared for.
With one big difference.
“Who is it,” she asked, tears clogging her throat at the pain this poor man must have gone through. “Tell me,” she said in a stronger voice.
“You don’t recognize him?” he asked incredulously. “Do you always sleep with men that you don’t know well enough to recognize them?”
“What?” she turned to stare at him. “I don’t recognize anyone given there is no face here,” she tapped the image. “And I swear I’ve never slept with this man.” She frowned. She’d made a few poor choices in her life, but she’d hoped she’d recognize every man she had slept with.
“Are you sure?”
She shrugged. “As sure as I can be without a face to see. I doubt most people would recognize him.”
“Yeah, and the tat?”
“What about it?”
“You don’t recognize your own work? The tat you put on all your lovers,” he said mockingly. “I wear one. So does he.” He tapped the photo. “Or can’t you recognize your own work either?”
Just to make sure, she turned, grabbed one of many magnifying glasses she had lying around, and used it on the image. She couldn’t tell the artist from his work.
She shook her head. “I already knew, but this just confirms it. That’s not my work.”
*
Could it be? He stared at her in shock, but she stared back at him so calm and composed, he had to consider it. What if she was correct? Maybe this wasn’t his brother.
Hope slowly rose.
He’d been so sure, based on that tat. Billy had said it was Jazz’s work. He knew Jazz’s lovers sported a tiny dragon. He had his own. He’d asked a different artist about changing it and had even made the appointment to get it done but had chickened out. How could he remove the reminder of the best days and nights of his life? Needing that connection, no matter how small, he’d finally made peace with it and the tiny bit of her he was privileged to carry.
Now…now he didn’t know what to think.
“So tell me. Stop the damn games. Who is this?”
He took a deep breath. “I thought it was Billy.”
Silence.
He watched the blow hit her. She’d already been prepared in a small way, but nothing could mellow the shock and the pain. Her face blanched and her gaze pivoted from the image to him and back again. Stricken. Then she reached out a hand.
This totally surprised him.
“I’m so sorry.”
He couldn’t believe it. Her fingers gently stroked his forearm. “I can’t imagine how you are feeling right now.”
Not what he expected, and he didn’t know how to respond. Her compassion hit him in the heart. It was a shitty day. This was a horrible way to find out about his brother – if it was his brother.
Regardless of the emotions overwhelming him, he was finally understanding one thing… something was seriously wrong.
He took a deep breath. “Are you sure this isn’t your work?”
She kept her gaze on him but let her fingers slowly slide off his arm. “Yes. I know it’s not my work.”
“Damn.”
“Why?”
“I was hoping you could identify this man.” He glared at the image. “I’m afraid it’s Billy.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t say.” Her gaze strayed to the picture again. “I don’t know the artist of that tattoo either.”
“But isn’t it your image?”
She slowly nodded. “With a difference.”
“What difference?” He looked at the image. It looked like what he’d seen before. But could he guarantee that it was the same? How fast a glance had he’d taken? It was his brother’s ass, after all. Billy had shoved his shorts down to show Morgan the tat. Morgan wouldn’t have believed it otherwise. But he’d seen it. Enough to identify the artist.
That had been enough. He’d walked out soon after. Hating her for being deceitful. A huge emotional mess trying to do the right thing. Now he wondered all over again.
Why would Billy show him the tattoo and tell him that Jazz had been the artist if she’d not been?
Then again, he was assuming that this male was his brother.
Maybe it wasn’t.
That would be huge. He wanted to believe it wasn’t, really wanted to believe it. But that tattoo looked too much like the one he’d seen on his brother’s butt. If it wasn’t his brother lying there on the cold table, then who was it? If it was his brother, then he’d lied about Jazz having done the tattoo.
Or Jazz was lying.
Shit. He slumped back, trying to sort it out, and realized he couldn’t; he didn’t have enough information.
“Will you come to the morgue and look yourself?”
At her shocked look, he added in a low voice, “Please.”
She shook her head. “God, I don’t want to.”
“We need to know if it’s him.” He held his breath, hoping and knowing he didn’t deserve it but desperate to know. “The tat might look different when you see it on him.”
“It won’t make any difference.”
He frowned.
“It’s not my work.”
He nodded but couldn’t let it go. “Maybe seeing it up close would help you to identify the artist.”
She chewed on her bottom lip as she stared at it. Then nodded. “Fine, but we have to go now before I lose my nerve.”