Mystwalker 01: The Trouble with Fate Page 9

  Huh. I planted a forearm on his chest, and strained backward, but that just rammed the lower part of me harder into the lower part of him.

  “Mmphh,” he said, digging his heels into the mattress. He flexed his hips, and I rose with him. The guy had serious thigh muscles. The Were-bitch inside me anxiously whined—something she usually only did passing the food court. Go back to sleep, I warned her. I tried to slide off his body, but he wasn’t about to let me go—he clutched my upper body like I was his favorite blow-up doll. Clearly his happy-stick was sad and lonely. He registered its discontent with a few pelvic tilts, putting a severe strain on the elastic waist of his tented shorts. With that, Were musk permeated the room.

  Oh my word.

  It was like someone flicked the switch to “on.” I went from curious, to hazy-in-lust as my Were’s mating instinct woke up with a start. Indiscriminate bitch. My fingers forgot all about the amulet, and slipped down to lightly skim the skin south of his belly button. He sucked in his breath obligingly.

  I ran a fingernail along the elastic edge of his underwear, encountering something hot and hard. He pulled his belly muscles in so tightly that the vein running along his hip stood out. “Candy-girl,” he whispered, a wealth of yearning in his voice. And there it was. The lick of lust faded as fast as a sugar high after an Oreo. I put my head on his hot shoulder for a moment and breathed in the deep mix of him: scotch, sex, and salt, woods, grasses—that indefinable combination of scents that spoke of a male Were—before I pulled my hand out of Candy’s territory.

  Even my Were reluctantly agreed. There is theft and then there is theft.

  “I have to go pee,” I said, feeling sad, my lips moving against his salty skin. His groan was more of a low growl, but he relaxed his grip on me, and I sat up. Focus. I said that to myself twice. The second time it stuck.

  The tail of the chain still dangled from his grasp. I carefully teased it away from each finger, getting as far as his thumb before I met any resistance. Gently, I gave it a tug. He growled, low in his throat, and tightened his hand into a fist again.

  If the Candy-loving Trowbridge wasn’t going to give the amulet up on his own, I better make sure he was really out. I twisted my head to eye the room for a weapon. The light was bolted into the cheap furniture. The television remote was too small. There was a flimsy wooden chair with a truly ugly cushion, that would likely break into kindling over his tough Were head. There was the empty bottle, but it would shatter and then I’d be in a room with shards of glass and an enraged Were. I smothered a sigh. It would have to be the television again, but at least I could unscrew it from the cable before I sent it flying through the air. I brought a toe to the floor.

  Trowbridge let out a sigh of his own. Not an I’m-waiting-and-ready sigh. More of an I’m-too-wasted-to-stay-awake sigh. I looked at his hand and smiled. It no longer clutched the amulet—it cradled it, leaving the necklace there for the taking in his open palm, with its chain hanging like a garland from his fingers.

  See? Opportunity. I tossed Merry over my shoulder, and quickly leaned over to untwine the amulet’s chain from his fingers. My lips were curving into a victory smile when his hand came up again, cupped the back of my head, and pulled me down for a kiss.

  My First Kiss.

  His lips were hot and his beard was scratchy, his breath was a trifle sour. I could get over that. Because his lips … oh Goddess, the feeling of them pressed to mine. Warm, heated by his heart. Soft and tender. A little damp. Larger than mine, but mobile and never still. A press, a lick, a little nibble on my lower lip. The bristles of his beard were not sharp at all—if anything, their tickle felt intimate and male. A soft noise escaped my lips. His hands suddenly moved—one to capture the nape of my neck, the other to cradle my jaw. My Were gave a food-hungry moan. A scent exuded from him, foreign to my nose, but it spoke of urgency and want. Sighing, I threaded my own hand through his curly mane. So soft, and silky. I mirrored his cupped hand against my chin.

  Oh, he liked that. At the touch of my fingers, he made a noise in the back of his throat, part growl, part masculine hmm, and teased my parted lips with his.

  I stopped worrying about my frolicking inner Were. I let go of caution, and common sense. I surrendered to the awesomely incendiary combination of me and him.

  His tongue stroked mine. So strange, so … intimate.

  Go ahead, for a minute or two wallow in the full experience of THIS … There was no pain, no need to grit my teeth as I waited for the hurt to pass. Tears built at the pure, simple freedom of it. Remember this: a man’s chest under my body, lifting me with each of his heavy breaths. Never forget this: the scent of him—his whiskey breath, his shampoo, his wood-fragrant Were skin. See? No hurt. No pain. Just … him. Oh Goddess. This was what they talked about. So simple. Bodies lined up. Hip to hip, swollen breast to hard chest. Legs entwined. This was what everyone else had. Schoolgirls, grown-up women, even old ladies with their faded smiles.

  The need grew inside me. I trembled on the brink of full capitulation, and then—as one does when their toes are hanging over a bottomless crevice—I took a mental cautious step backward. If you stay one more minute in his arms, it’s over, common sense told me. All those years of hiding from the Weres—both the Creemore ones and the little bitch buried inside you—they’ll mean nothing. And soon—maybe in another second or two—he might discover that he’s not holding just a woman, or even another Were.

  He might look at you like they used to.

  My tongue withdrew from the cavern of his mouth. I slid my hand away from his tempting curls, forced my fingers to stop stroking his jaw.

  “Baby?” he muttered, puzzled. I strained from his hold.

  Trowbridge pulled the blindfold off and squinted blearily against the light. I knew what I was going to do—my knee was already poised—and yeah, maybe I was already regretting what was surely going to come next. Just before I let loose the knee-from-hell, the phone in my pocket chirruped.

  His eyes shot fully open. Black lashes around sharpening blue eyes.

  “Your phone’s ringing,” I said.

  The two lines between his brows deepened into crevasses.

  “You going to get that?”

  He glanced at the side table.

  Then I brought my knee down hard.

  Chapter Six

  “Jesus,” he roared, rolling into a fetal ball of woe.

  I made it off the bed and three feet in the direction of the door before he tackled me. “Oooph,” I said, collapsing under his smothering weight. Oh shit, I couldn’t even inhale under him. It’s those Were bones, you know. Think about it. All sorts of strange shit must be in them to allow Weres to elongate and reshape themselves monthly.

  There was a frantic mouse squeaking in the room. Dimly, because—oh crap—the light was really fading, I realized I was the mouse. He was the trap, and I was going to die with my cheek ground into the floor, choking on dust mites. The scent memory I’d have before the trip to the other side would be whiskey, Were, and the musty odor of old sex.

  And then, thank you Goddess, he got off me. I took a grateful breath, dust mites and all. His fingers bit into my shoulder as he rolled me over.

  “You thieving bitch,” he shouted as he straddled me. His beautiful face was ugly with rage.

  I squeezed my eyes shut as he drew back a fist to hit me. Once again, air whooshed by my head, but this time there was no pain. Just a loud splintering thump right by my ear. “Fuck,” I heard him say over my head. His weight lifted off me. I sucked in some air. With my bruised lungs, it was like sucking a milkshake through a tiny straw.

  He was doing a boxer’s cha-cha three-step by my head, alternately swearing and flexing his red knuckles. “Shit,” he cursed. “Shit.”

  My heart was banging away so hard in my chest that I was sure he could hear it. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want anyone to ever hear my heart like that—all defenseless and frantic. I rolled onto my side and curled my arms around my
chest.

  I could see him, standing by the door. Trowbridge had gone from nursing his hand to holding his head as if it pained him. He kicked the chair with his bare foot, and then limped over to the windows. He pulled the curtain aside. Turned his head to this side and that, searching for bad guys. Tested the air with his nose with sharp urgent inhales that made his nostrils flare like a racehorse’s on its last lap. Managed to resemble a freakin’ dog doing it.

  When my heart settled down, the rest of my body started sending in damage reports. Lungs, functioning. Ribs, painful. Hip, being bruised by something hard. By what? I swept my fingers under my hip and felt the cool smooth surface of Fae gold. The amulet was larger and heavier than Merry. It felt dead. There was no intelligence to it, no response to my Fae blood. Trowbridge was still watching the parking lot. Quickly, I jammed the amulet into the hoodie’s pocket while Merry scrambled over my shoulder, and tunneled down under its neck.

  His head swiveled. While I’d been recovering, he’d been doing the same thing. He’d brought himself down from mad dog to pissed-off male. The frightening wildness had left his face. His cheekbones still had a flushed residue of heat to them, but his blue eyes were just dark blue now. When he’d pulled his fist on me, I’d fancied there was a light burning like a ring of blue fire around his black pupils. An Alpha’s eyes do that. But he wasn’t an Alpha, because he wouldn’t be alone, he wouldn’t have pulled back on his punch, and his eyes were just a dark, tired blue.

  His gaze roved the room and then returned to me. “What are you doing in my room?”

  “Maid service?”

  “Be careful, kid, I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.” He stared at me, and ran the fingers of one of his hands through his hair, before he frowned. “Are you alone?”

  “No. I have friends waiting in the parking lot.”

  His nostrils flared. “You’re lying.”

  I shrugged. Weres. Some were like breathing lie detectors.

  “How did you get in here?”

  I pointed a finger to the door.

  He went to the dresser. His balance was improving. “There was an alarm.”

  I pointed to the bottle lying on the floor and raised one shoulder.

  He patted his side, as if checking for his cell phone, which looked ridiculous because he wasn’t wearing anything other than a white sock, a pair of crumpled briefs, and an armband of shredded jersey. Absently, he rubbed his neck as he contemplated me, then his hand froze at his nape. “Where is it?”

  “What?”

  “My necklace.”

  I could have said, “What? The Fae amulet that you don’t have any right to? That necklace?” Instead, I shot to my feet and streaked for the door.

  I met the door, though a lot harder and faster than I planned. He crushed my five-two into the cheap-veneered door like a six-foot flatiron. He ran his hands around my waist, and then down the front of me. I shoved my hand inside my pocket, found the amulet, and tightened my fist around it.

  “Give it.” He fumbled for my hand and slowly pulled it out of the pocket. He didn’t try to break my fingers or my wrist. The lazy bastard just leaned into me, squeezing the air out of my chest. I hummed through my nose, writhing between the vise of his body weight and the unforgiving surface of the door. “Let it go.”

  I nodded, but didn’t let go.

  He ground into me. Writhing turned into pure frantic wiggling.

  “Can’t breathe again,” I choked out.

  “Let. It. Go.”

  I held on until my vision got spotty. Then I let it go.

  “Sit.”

  I stumbled over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He inspected the amulet by the light of the television before placing it around his neck. It was incongruous. All medieval girlie pendant on a chest that was neither.

  He raked his fingers through his hair. “Take off the sweatshirt.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “I could pat you down again, but the way I’m feeling right now, they may need to call 911 after I’m finished.”

  He had a loud voice that grated on my ears.

  I unzipped the hoodie slowly, fussily, using both hands on the zipper, giving Merry enough time and cover to scoot into her cup. The sweatshirt made a thunk when it hit the floor. Probably broke my new toy.

  “Hands up, do a three-sixty.”

  I rotated for him.

  “Put your foot on the bed, then lift your pant leg. Show me your ankle … now the other.” It was like a really bad game of Simon Says.

  “Put your knife on the bed, very slowly.”

  I scowled at him.

  “No knife? Silver, then?” His eyebrows rose, making his forehead crease into two lines. “You came in here without a weapon? Jesus, I didn’t think anyone would be that dumb.” He picked up his wallet to riffle through the cards and bills. With a snap of his fingers, he said, “My cell. Give it now.”

  It must be hard to sustain alcoholism as a Were considering their fast metabolism. Fur-boy had been unsteady on his feet two minutes ago. Now he was all squint-eyed and evil. I tossed the phone. He caught it one-handed. “Okay, now give me yours.”

  Buying time, I brought my hands up to my eyeglass frames and straightened them carefully. I know it’s a disarming thing because it’s worked on humans for years. I gave Trowbridge my best Bambi through the frames as I said, “I don’t have one.”

  He snorted.

  Reluctantly, I pulled out Scawens’s phone. I was going to have to steal it back before I left this place.

  He flipped it open. “So, who’s Eric?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.” He scrolled some more. Then his jaw got hard. He turned off the phone and took out the battery. “Stand up. Don’t try it with the knee again or you won’t be able to use your own.” Yeah, all brave Were. He walked up to me sideways with one hand ready at his hip level. “Put your hands behind your head.”

  I clasped them loosely behind my neck, and thought really evil thoughts. My blouse had a two-button gaping hole below the apex of my boobs, where Merry had torn the shirt to get access to my heart. The underside of my red-lace-covered breast was exposed, along with a five-inch strip of white skin. I’d liked the bra when I stole it from one of the circular racks at Wal-Mart, but now the acrylic lace screamed scratchy, and the orange-red appeared unpleasantly garish against the contrast of my pale white skin.

  His attention wandered off my face, roamed over my body, then slid to my cheap red bra long enough to assess my cup size. A muscle tightened in his cheek. I was still trying to figure out what that meant when he said, “Tell me you’re not a teenage hooker.”

  The look I gave him was pure disgust. His body search was perfunctory. Up my sides, across my waist, down my arms to my wrists. The same hands that had caressed my ass a couple of minutes ago patted my butt, but this time there was no affection in it. Trowbridge reached for the hoodie. He never took his eyes off me as he searched through its pockets.

  “Aha,” he said. “The alarm.” Then he pulled my new toy out, and all hell broke loose in room 6 of the Easy Court Motel.

  * * *

  Sound. Horrible, horrible sound blew through the small room. It was spine-cracking, eardrum-piercing, body-contorting noise. I screeched and fell to the ground, covering my ears. Oh Goddess, someone stop the pain. The pain, the pain. My ears.

  The noise suddenly stopped. I trembled in the aftermath. “Up,” he said, sounding grim. I let out a faint moan as he jerked me to my feet by my collar. I really was going to hurt him. I wasn’t even going to mind the payback pain. Then my stomach—Hedi’s emotional barometer—took care of any revenge fantasies. I threw up eighteen partially digested almonds and a bottle of water all over his bare stomach and my pant leg.

  “Christ, you’re such a kid,” he said. Big on words, Trowbridge. He used my sweatshirt to wipe his stomach.

  I could feel the vomit on my chin, and used my shirt’s sle
eve to wipe it clean.

  He winced. “You are ruining my day.”

  “It’s night.”

  “Detail.” He blew out some hot air. “Come on, kid. I can’t think past the stink of your puke.” He wrapped his hand around my braid again, but this time instead of fondling it, he hauled it up high over my head. What do you do when someone tries to lift you off your feet by your braid? You go on your tippy-toes and hold on to it with both hands.

  And that’s how he frog-walked me to the bathroom.

  The bathroom hadn’t changed in the last five minutes. The white sink was still rust marked. The toilet seat was still up. The thin vinyl shower curtain still hung off a dull silver rod by metal hooks. There was no window. The only thing by the sink was a thin rectangle of cheap pink soap. There was nothing I could use.

  He shoved me face-first into the wall between the sink and the bathtub and kept me there, his hand on the back of my head. “Keep your forehead on the wall.”

  There was a hiss of water as he turned on the shower. I rolled my eyes to the right. The dial was set on blue, not red. The cold spray started to wet the back of my leg and the floor.

  “Don’t move.”

  I watched from the corner of my eye, as Trowbridge leaned over the sink, let some water run and slurped up several handfuls before he was satisfied. He glanced at himself in the mirror, without doing any of the rearranging most of us do. He didn’t widen his eyes, or lift his chin, or suck in his cheeks. His face was neutral, as if he were used to seeing himself hungover and needing a shave. Then he scowled down at his arm.

  “Shit,” he said, reaching for the armband of jersey left from his T-shirt shredding. “I liked that shirt.” He rolled it down his arm. The last piece of his T-shirt fluttered to the floor.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off his hand. Could he still strum the guitar with a thumb and two fingers? I used to watch him, almost every night. He had a spot under the tree on his ridge; I had a spot behind the bushes on mine. He’d play the guitar, pausing every so often to take a sip of his drink or study the night sky, a brooding expression on his face. It used to bother me, that sad look.