Reach For Me

by Elizabeth Cole

  Mal tensed up, unable to shut down images of Lex or Dom dead because he failed to keep them safe. Or worse than dead. There were vampires in the world who wanted nothing more than to turn Dom into one of them, to make him into the thing he hated most.

  Or Lex, sweet little Lex, trapped in some demon’s pocket hell, to be a plaything for eternity.

  “Breathe,” he told himself. “Just breathe.” He counted his breaths, like he’d been taught. He tried to let the thought go, just for a while. He tried to focus on the present. He reminded himself that he had a job to do.

  The Salems did not have a safe occupation. But at least Dom and Lex had Mal at their backs.

  After a few minutes, he felt a little calmer. He stretched his arms, rolled his head and neck to relax his muscles. It was all too much to think about.

  What are you doing. The comment came into his mind at the same moment the massive black cat sauntered into the basement.

  “I’m exercising.”

  You’re exhausted, and you need to be awake tomorrow to keep your position. Or else what has all this been for? The years of your family watching and waiting? Just so you can squander the best shot you have at seeing the enemy?

  “The construction crew is not the enemy.”

  You don’t know what they are, Behemoth warned. Now go to bed, and stop being a fool, Malachy Salem.

  He made a face at the cat, but went upstairs.

  He’d insisted to his brothers that Cara was not his type, but when he went to bed that night, he couldn’t shake off the thought of her. He could picture her face, her pouty lips opening when he got his hands in her hair and pulled her close. He could almost hear her moan when he kissed her, hard and deep, with their tongues sliding in and out, sparking more need in his groin. Damn, he could smell her, that combination of coffee and sawdust and varnish that shouldn’t be remotely sexy, but if it wasn’t, then why was the simple memory of that scent getting him hard right now? He’d just met her that morning.

  Mal suppressed a groan, and hesitated only a second before letting his hand drop down, circling his cock. He envisioned Cara’s red hair, but this time falling over bare shoulders and just grazing her nipples, hard and pink and totally exposed for him to see. He imagined how her tits would move during sex, and the resulting brain porn had him turning his head into the pillow so he wouldn’t wake up the rest of the house with his pathetic panting.

  He wanted to slow down, to enjoy this unexpected fantasy of curvy, sexy Cara, who hated him on sight. But she couldn’t be all hate. He’d seen the way she looked him over when they met. Sure, she huffed and told him to put on a shirt, but not until she got a good eyeful.

  It took half a second to rewrite that script. Now Cara didn’t ask him to put anything on, and instead walked right up and ran her hands down his torso and told him to take his pants off. The idea of her touching him made him stiffen even more, and Mal worked himself shamelessly as he kept his mind on Cara.

  The second he imagined her in a bed, underneath him, begging him for more, he knew he’d gone over the edge. He gasped once as his balls tightened before he came, hard, riding out the wave of pure pleasure, like a hit of something extremely illegal.

  Mal exhaled, his body relaxing. He’d made a mess, leaving the sheets sticky, like he was a teenager still waking from wet dreams. But for this moment, it was worth it. His breathing smoothed out, the tension he’d been carrying now gone.

  Why had Cara got him so worked up? She wasn’t anything special. He’d dated way hotter girls, girl who knew just what to wear and how to smile to make the most of what they had.

  But it wasn’t any of those girls who just got him hard by the memory of her sawdust-laced hair.

  “Oh, no,” he groaned when he felt a stirring in his body. No way was he going to rub another one out, not tonight. He was tired. He was a grown man. He was not some hormone-fueled snot who’d just discovered the internet.

  Think of her on top, that hair falling down… Mal’s body was already reacting to that image, ramping up for another go. What was wrong with him?

  His last hookup was only a week ago, and it had been great. Fun time, no commitment, no confusion. What was her name? Lindsey. Blonde. Leggy. Pool shark, super funny, hot. They both had a good time, and Lindsey told him to call her if he was up for a rematch. Pool or sex.

  He could call. Mal bet that Lindsey would clear her schedule, even this late at night.

  Or he could lie here and keep thinking of Cara. He didn’t want a blonde in his bed. He wanted a redhead.

  A redhead named Cara.

  What if she’s kinky? Mal’s head rolled back a little at that thought. What kind of kink might Cara be into, and how hot would that be? Cara in restraints, maybe? Or Mal in restraints? He’d take either scenario.

  He’d take whatever she offered, actually. Again and again and again, until he got her out of his system.

  He fell asleep at last, but, like Mal, 5:00 a.m. came way too fast.

  Chapter 4

  Cara was back at work the next day at dawn. The project caught hold of her in a way no previous work had done.

  She parked at the bottom of the hill, figuring that the walk up would do her good. As she got out, she got a much better look at the house right across the street. To call it a dump would be generous. It was an old Victorian, three stories tall and clearly once a beauty. Cara got angry on behalf of the house as she cataloged all the indignities it suffered over the years. Paint cracked and peeling. A bay window practically falling out of the wall. The roof sagging in parts. The front porch supported by a stack of concrete blocks in one corner. And all over, the wonderful original gingerbread detailing was rotten or entirely gone.

  I could fix it up, she thought, feeling the familiar urge to make things beautiful. Then, Hold up, sweetie. It’s not like you’re getting paid for that one.

  She glanced at the mailbox to her right. The name SALEM was stenciled in block letters onto the metal box, which was tilted at a crazy angle because the post it was attached to had been hit by a truck, or possibly a dozen trucks. She wrinkled her nose. She really hated it when people didn’t take care of their homes.

  But then, maybe the owner wasn’t physically capable of maintenance. Cara tried to rein in her judginess. She’d hate to blame this wreckage on some frail old man who lived sad and alone here at the edge of town.

  Something moved in the corner of her vision. A little calico rounded the side of the house and stopped as soon as it caught sight of Cara.

  “Hey there,” Cara said, feeling very awkward about talking to a cat almost too far away to hear. “This your place? I see you don’t wait for Halloween to decorate.”

  The cat did not reply. It just regarded her with the sort of steady, unblinking stare that only cats could get away with.

  Cara shifted her attention to the mailbox again. It annoyed her, and it also gave her an idea. She smiled at the cat. “Just you wait,” she whispered.

  Unaccountably cheerful, Cara turned and headed slowly up the drive to Egan House. Talk about getting a jump on Halloween. The place was a classic spook house from a 1950s horror film. If the owner wanted to skip the restoration and just operate the place as a haunted house tour, they’d make a killing.

  But maybe that was one of the reasons Morningside’s client was being secretive. Didn’t want the bad press that came with stories of haunted houses and ghost tales.

  Well, once Cara was done, all the news about this place would be positive.

  That’s what she silently told herself anyway. She had to keep her spirits up. It was difficult enough being the only woman on a construction site. It was way tougher when she was in the authority position. A lot of guys didn’t react well to taking orders from a woman. Half the time, they didn’t believe she knew what she was talking about. Until she slapped on a hard hat, pulled on work gloves, and proved it.

  But damn, it was tiring to have to prove it over and over. Each new job was a new challenge, si
nce she moved around the country and always had a new crew to work with.

  This group seemed better than most. The first day had been a test to see how they worked together. She liked to see how the dynamic shook out among employees. Letting them figure out who was on what team told her a lot about them.

  The crew had indeed split up, without any fuss or manly displays of hierarchy. The outside team appeared to be Reyes, Jalen, and Mal. Reyes had waved to her from the seat of the earthmover he was driving, using the gigantic blade as a shovel to push fallen branches and random trash out of the way. Jalen walked slowly across the property, head down, sticking flags into the ground to mark the old pipes and electrical. Hitting those by accident would be bad.

  When she’d looked at Mal, he’d been carrying a literal tree trunk over his shoulder, a caveman display of strength that set her teeth on edge, and definitely had no effect on the lower part of her belly. At least Mal hadn’t seen her watching. He seemed like the kind of guy who enjoyed making women all flustered. And it didn’t help that he was the hottest man on the crew. Kevin was cute, but married. Dan was also married. Reyes was a little too old, and she didn’t like the way Barry leered at her. Jalen was a dish, but he was also antisocial. He barely looked at Cara when she talked to him.

  Nope. Cara was smart to keep to her ethical stance of never dating someone she worked with. It was too messy, and would ruin any respect she fought to earn. Mal would have to take his ridiculously ripped body and panty-melting, smoldery gaze elsewhere. Not that he was really interested. He probably just asked her to dinner out of habit, or with the aim to get a raise.

  Ugh, stop thinking of him.

  Cara unlocked the office trailer and hit the light on. Yesterday, she’d worked on making the temporary construction trailer into a proper work space. She set up a desk in one corner, with a couple chairs and a filing cabinet. A large table occupied the center, where she placed the blueprints to roll out later. She’d have to reference them every day, because the architecture and design of the house was unique. These prefab trailers were essential on job sites where the actual building was in no shape for habitation, like Egan House. But they were also plain and ugly, and Cara always wished there was a way to spruce them up. But what was the point? In a couple of months, she’d be on a different job site, in a different prefab trailer, and it would start all over again.

  “Stay in the present moment, girl,” she told herself.

  She should be happy right here, right now. Finally, she had the perfect job to fit her skills. And even better, her client wanted the very best work, and was willing to pay for the right materials and the labor to do it well. Cara would still have taken the job—she had to eat—but it was awesome that she was going to be able to really do right by the house.

  Armed with rolled-up blueprints and some old photographs, she put on her hard hat, tucking her hair up under the shell. Then she walked to the house, eager to get to work on a task she couldn’t outsource to any of the crew.

  Cara had set up her work table in a corner of the parlor. That was where her expensive tools stayed—the precision drills and blades and saws she needed to do the intricate detail work of the house’s many decorative elements.

  There was all the paneling in the front foyer and the staircase, and then the giant fireplace mantel in the dining room. But the real work would be in the parlor, which would require marquetry on a scale Cara had never seen before. It was a challenge and a threat to her skills.

  At the moment, the floor of the parlor room was a wreck. An absolute wreck. Cara wanted to cry when she saw the condition of the floor with her own eyes. The inlaid wood was broken, cracked, curling up, or just plain dissolved. She picked up a pale piece of maple, and it disintegrated in her hands. A diamond shape of dark cherry lay warped, years of humidity having done its work.

  She stood in the very middle of the cracked and broken surface of the parlor. Looking up at the ceiling—a horror show of water-stained and crumbling plaster—Cara smiled. She saw not the house as it was, but the house as it used to be and would be again.

  Then without warning, a feeling of incredible sadness rolled over Cara. Pain. Sorrow. Years and years of loneliness, all at once. How could they do this to me, my own parents? Hurting me like this, leaving me here, when all I ever wanted was to please them?

  She inhaled, not at all prepared for the onslaught of emotion. It didn’t even feel like her own, but what else could it be?

  Cara had dealt with some rough stuff over the past few years, but was it that bad? She wiped away the tears that had sprung into her eyes. She shuffled a few steps toward the wall, feeling dizzy.

  Her dad let the family down, yes. He’d hurt Cara more than she ever admitted out loud. She’d looked up to him, and admired him and wanted to emulate him…and then she’d learned the truth, and it was like getting slapped in the face. Daddy, why’d you do that?

  Cara shook her head once. The dizziness only increased. She was usually good about avoiding thoughts of her awful family dynamic. Don’t talk about it, don’t think about it, and eventually it will sort itself out in one way or another. She had to get herself together. There’s no crying allowed in construction.

  Cara reached for a tissue from her pack and was just wiping her eyes when she heard someone approach.

  “Go away!” she snapped out. She didn’t want anyone to see her, especially not Mal.

  But it was Mal who stood in the doorway.

  * * * *

  Mal felt heat and violence in Cara’s explosive words, but he stood his ground. “Cara? Are you ok?”

  She turned her face to the wall. “I said go away.” More muffled this time, without the power in the phrase before.

  “Are you crying?” he asked.

  “No!”

  Mal moved over to her. “What happened?”

  “Nothing! I’m not crying, because nothing happened.”

  “Something happened. What’s going on?”

  “Ugh, get off my case. We’re not friends.”

  He tried to sound as inoffensive as possible. “Look, I guess I offended you the first day. Asking you out. I’m sorry. If I’d heard the rules first, I wouldn’t have, ok?”

  Cara looked at him, her eyes suspiciously puffy. “Fine. I didn’t think you were serious anyway.”

  He picked up the scattered photographs and designs at her feet, giving them a once-over. “You like working with wood?”

  She glared at him. “Yeah. And before you say one more word, I’ve heard every stupid joke about it already. Whatever clever, funny thing you were about to say, you can keep it to yourself.”

  “Actually, I was going to ask if you got into woodworking as a specialty in historical restoration or art school or what…” Mal trailed off, his attention captured by the image in the photographs.

  Power. Mal looked at the floor in the old photograph and felt a sting of fear. The pattern was subtle, but it was there, concentric rings, with symbols inlaid in different colored wood all around the edges. It was hands down, no question, a summoning circle.

  “Well, this is occult as fuck,” he muttered.

  Cara actually laughed, a warm sound that bubbled up out of her throat and hit Mal’s ears and then slid right down his body to warm him in places he should not be focusing on right now.

  “It does look that way, doesn’t it?” she said brightly. Whatever made her cry was evidently forgotten. “It’s an absolutely wonderful example of Deco Orientalism. There was a vogue for Egyptian revivalism at the time, and by all accounts, the Egans were wealthy, well-traveled people who had an obsession with archeology. This floor was specially designed by Egan to evoke the images people associated with ancient mysticism, but with a modern bent informed by Deco sensibilities. The detail is amazing. There will be over a dozen types of wood in the marquetry. I’ve never done a job with this many fiddly bits.” She said the last part with unabashed joy.

  He stared at the design, stunned by the complexity of i
t. “You’ll make this? All this?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I didn’t design it. But I’ll cut the new pieces and install them. Marquetry is really fun. It’s not usually this big—a whole floor is incredibly unusual—but the method is the same.”

  “Oh.” Mal got the sense that letting Cara create this design right over the hellhole would be a very, very bad idea. “You say the Egans designed it?”

  “That’s what the research suggests. This is a very personal thing, not a typical decoration at all. Probably it was Egan himself who chose how to make it. It’s so intricate that I wanted to get here early and sort of…get the vibe of the area.” She gestured to the place where the summoning circle was once laid out.

  Evil. Mal got that vibe from across the street. “What’s your verdict?”

  “You interrupted me before I could figure it out.” She shook her head. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not some new age crystal-toting nut. I don’t mean I’m trying to see the house’s aura. I just mean that I like to get a sense of what I’m working on. Pictures and newspaper clippings are all well and good. But it’s nothing like really stepping into a place. That’s how you know.”

  “You must have got some sense of the place.”

  She frowned. “Yeah. Well, yes and no. I want to love it. There’s so much here—old craftsmanship, old materials. Clearly someone cared about this house and wanted it to be unique. But there’s something off too.”

  Mal said nothing, hoping to encourage her. Cara went on, seemingly not even really talking to him. She was walking around, sorting out her own thoughts. “Maybe it’s just the decades of neglect. But there’s a sadness here. Really sad. More than sad. Depressed? No. Despairing? Despairing. It’s like there’s something despairing hiding in the corners of all the rooms. And you don’t notice it all the time, but when you do, oy. It’s like no amount of rehab or love or money is going to fix it. Might as well burn the place down.”