Relentless in Texas

by Kari Lynn Dell

  She let him pull her up and almost into his arms. She felt as if she should say something profound, but she couldn’t form the words to describe what had just happened between them.

  And he wasn’t ready to hear it, so she held out a hand to catch one of the first, fat drops and offered it to him with a suggestive smile.

  “In that case, it seems like a perfect night for a rain check.”

  Chapter 23

  Gil probably should have stayed for a late supper with a few of the others after the meeting, but he wasn’t in the mood for stale cigarettes and even staler regrets. He craved cherries and almond, and that indefinable something about Carma that made him feel cleaner, as if she chased the darkness out of him the way she’d seemed to draw the bruises out through his skin.

  He’d come looking for a moment’s peace, and he’d found that and more, until a single kiss had turned him inside out.

  The apartment was cool and dim and still bare. The only visible marks Carma had made were a pair of flip-flops kicked off beside the front door, a scatter of clothes across the bed, and a jean jacket tossed over the back of a chair. She moved silently, dropping the blankets and cushions on the couch as she passed, as if unnecessary words might break the spell they’d woven together.

  She left the bathroom door open and the light off, the outlines of her body blurred in the diffuse glow from the living room lamp as she pulled the tank top over her head and let it drop. Once again, she stripped without a hint of self-consciousness, then turned to adjust the taps in the shower while he did the same. Together they stepped under the spray, this time with his back braced against the wall.

  Wordlessly, she wound her arms around his neck, flesh sliding against slick, wet flesh as she took his mouth in kiss after kiss. Long, deep, drowning kisses that refused to be rushed.

  That mouth. God, that mouth. The taste of her was as potent as whiskey sliding over his tongue, simultaneously heating his blood and smoothing his ragged edges. The kisses went on and on and on, until he lost track of where one ended and the next began. Only then did she pull away to scoop the bar of soap from the dish, rubbing circles of lather over his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, and finally…

  “Holy fuck,” he rasped as her hand closed around him. She gave a low laugh when he banged his head against the shower wall, and he swore again as she worked the lather over him, until every red blood cell in his body seemed to have rushed to that immediate area.

  Then another curse as she let go and stepped out of the stall. The shower hit him full on, sluicing away the soap, a thousand stinging fingers on his aroused flesh. Directly above them thunder boomed and lightning flashed. He felt their power vibrate clear to his bones, as if the song they’d created had bound him to the elements. Steam billowed around him and Carma materialized from the cloud, a vision of mist and dreams he’d called down from the sky.

  But she was very, very real.

  As his greedy hands reached for her, she pressed the condom into his palm, then turned and lifted her arms up and over her head, her back to his chest, to link her fingers behind his neck.

  Utterly exposed, a sacrifice to whatever pleasure he chose to take.

  The trust implicit in that gesture was more staggering than the sight of her amazing body, wet and glistening. He fumbled the condom into place, then gave himself the luxury of running his palms over her, shaping every curve, memorizing every texture. Then it was too much. He grasped her hips and centered her. They moaned in unison when his cock slid between her thighs, and she rocked her hips to work herself against the hard length. Geezus. Geezus. He had to get inside her.

  And then he was, echoing her gasp as he drove deep. For a moment he held her there, savoring the clench of her body around his, teeth gritted against the urge to run wild. When he had himself under some semblance of control, he began to move in long, hard strokes, punctuated by low, almost feral sounds from deep in her throat. He pushed them both to the edge, holding them there for as long as physically possible, until he couldn’t keep his grip any longer and had to let them both tumble over.

  When his mind began to clear, he reached up, circled her wrists, and drew her arms down, wrapping them around her along with his own. And then he just held on while the storm outside continued to rage—echoing the thunder of his heart.

  * * *

  When the water started to cool, Gil peeled both of them off the shower wall and handed Carma a towel. She twisted her hair up in it, then grabbed a second to wrap around her body, glad the roar of the rain on the metal roof eliminated a silence that she might otherwise have been tempted to fill. In the close confines of the almost-dark bathroom, it felt as if they were suspended inside the storm, cut off from reality. She didn’t want to break the spell.

  Gil seemed to agree, drying off and pulling on silky black boxer briefs without speaking. God, that body. Even the scars were beautiful in their own way, a mottled testimony to his strength.

  She gave the towel on her head another squeeze, then unwound it and reached for her hairbrush.

  Gil caught her hand. “Can I?”

  “Um, sure.” Odd, that she felt more vulnerable now than when she’d put her body at his mercy. He could hurt her so easily, even if he was trying not to. And there was something so intimate about standing in front of the mirror, seeing that pucker of concentration between his brows as he lifted a section of hair and gingerly stroked the brush through it, so much gentler than she was with herself.

  Suddenly, it was too much. She had to create some space between them, even if it was only with words. “Is this a thing with you?” she asked.

  “Not until now.” His fingers separated another section with infinite care. “There are no Sanchez girls.”

  And he didn’t even consider that a boy might have long hair and braids. It occurred to Carma that until now, she hadn’t known anyone who was Native in blood and appearance but who’d never lived on a reservation. If she sometimes felt disconnected from what was supposed to be her culture, what must it be like for Gil?

  He smoothed the last tangles away. “Where’s the dryer?”

  “In the bedroom.”

  He set the brush down, took her shoulders, and steered her out of the bathroom. She balked when he tried to sit her on the side of the bed. “If you’re gonna tuck me in, let me get my jammies on, ’kay?”

  “Sorry. I lapsed into dad mode there for a second.”

  She found her sleep shirt on the floor at the end of the bed and was pulling it over her head when he plucked something from the nightstand. Crap. Maybe he wouldn’t remember…

  “It’s the rock from the story.” Blue fire glittered in his hand, and an instant later understanding sparked in his eyes. “Your story.”

  “Um, yeah.” It was too late to grab the stone and hide it under her pillow, so she found clean underwear and waited for the inevitable.

  It came with more amazement than disbelief. “It’s real?”

  “Yep. They’re called geodes. They come from…” She trailed off when he narrowed his eyes at her attempt to evade the real question. Sighing, she said, “Yes.”

  He turned the hollow, crystal-lined stone so it caught the light, his mind working through all the implications. “It was given to you in a vision.”

  During a vision. By a vision. She’d never decided how to put it. “Yes.”

  “And your brother carries the other half?”

  She nodded.

  He ran his thumb along the jagged edge of the crystals. “You said you were an INFJ.”

  “Actually, Analise said it. I just didn’t disagree.”

  He frowned, his tone on the verge of accusing. “So the thing you did to my hip and back Saturday night…”

  She sighed and sank onto the side of the bed. “When my mother hurt her back, the pain meds and muscle relaxers made her sick, so we were trying wha
tever else we could find. One of my aunts gave us the peppermint tea, and while I was rubbing it on, I realized I could feel hot spots, and if I touched her just so, I could release the pressure and ease the pain.” She held out her hands, palm up. “I don’t know how it works, or why it does wonders for some people and absolutely nothing for others.”

  “And the songs?”

  “I started making them up when I was three years old. They’re just my brain taking what I hear and feel and turning it into a song like you do with your guitar.”

  His face registered surprise, as if he’d never thought of his music that way. “I’m not tuning in to nature or whatever.”

  “Are you sure? What you played tonight…” She rolled her shoulders restlessly. “I can’t make a new song. They only come to me when I’m not trying, just…letting go.”

  Again he looked startled, and she knew it must be the same for him. Bing had told her that he’d learned to play the guitar when he was laid up after his wreck. Music therapy—songwriting in particular—had proven itself to be a valuable way for addicts to process their emotions. Had Gil known that, or was his music a beautiful accident?

  Either way, she was sure he had no idea how much of himself he’d put in his song.

  “Do your songs have lyrics?”

  He shook his head. “Only a few, and they suck.”

  “I guess some things aren’t meant to be put into words.”

  “Hmm.” He went back to turning the geode between his fingers, his mood shifting into something almost angry.

  “What?” she asked.

  “If I’d had something like this”—he set the stone down with a sharp click—“it wouldn’t have mattered. The pills were never just about the pain for me.”

  She blinked. “You think what I do could have helped you not get addicted?”

  “It wouldn’t have hurt.” His mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Hah. Punny guy.”

  Carma stared at him, stunned. She’d expected skepticism at best. Outright disbelief was more likely. This level of acceptance was so unexpected she found herself voicing the arguments that had been used against her. “It could be a mental trick. A kind of hypnosis where I just make you think you feel better.”

  Gil shrugged. “If I have less pain, what’s the difference?”

  “I might not be fixing anything. Even that…” She gestured at the stone in his hand. “To me, the vision was real. Someone else might say I hiked until I was so exhausted that I laid down and fell asleep beside a lake, had one helluva dream, and found a pretty rock when I woke up.”

  Except geodes weren’t found in her part of the northern Rockies, so where did it come from? Unless another hiker had dropped it, a souvenir from one of the gift shops. Carma had been so unnerved by the experience, she’d grasped at every possible explanation. Who was she to have a vision? She didn’t pray to the right entities, or participate in the right ceremonies. And when she’d tried to become the kind of person who should have been chosen, she’d felt as if she was only playing the part.

  Amazingly it was her brother, with his engineer’s love of all that could be calculated and measured, who’d put it in perspective.

  “Science can’t even explain what consciousness is,” he’d pointed out. “What we perceive as reality is a series of electrical impulses, based on input from sensors that may or may not be relaying accurate information. No two people see, hear, or feel anything the same way. We already know you pick up wavelengths that most of us don’t.” Then he’d mussed her hair, flashing one of his increasingly rare grins. “Maybe you’ve got tinfoil in your head and you’re receiving signals from extraterrestrials.”

  She’d shoved him away, poking out her tongue, but his words had stuck. And despite his devotion to logic, he never left the country without his half of the geode.

  Gil’s frown was back. “Aren’t visions sort of…expected?”

  “Among who? The mythical, magical Indians?” She snorted her impatience. “We’re not elves or fairies, with glitter in our DNA. My dad gets so pissed when some idiot on a movie set admires his spiritual connection with the horses, as if he was born being able to talk to animals instead of busting his ass to be the best trainer in the business.”

  His mouth twisted. “And I’m no better, despite everything my mother tried to teach me.”

  “Stop.” She tugged on his arm. “That was me being snarky when you’re just trying to understand.”

  Gil sat down, bare knee touching hers, his skin the denser shade of brown thanks to her scattering of white ancestors, one a fur trader whose Blackfeet wife had proved invaluable as a mediator when doing business with her notoriously hostile tribe. On one hand, she was a strong, smart woman who had improved circumstances for her people, putting guns and other trade goods in their hands.

  But her children were also the first on the family record to be baptized Methodist, given Christian names, and taught to speak English as their primary language, setting a precedent that had been carried down from generation to generation, leaving massive chunks of their Blackfeet heritage discarded along the way.

  “Listen,” she said. “There’s no such thing as the Native way. Or even the Blackfeet way. I assume it’s the same with the Navajo. Ask four people, you’ll get four opinions on how to do it right, or who even deserves to try.” She laid a hand on Gil’s ridiculously hard thigh. “There’s always gonna be someone who thinks you’re too Native for their taste, and others who say you aren’t enough. It’s a no-win.”

  “Speaking from experience?”

  She shrugged. “The word Pretendian gets thrown around a lot, even among ourselves.”

  “And at you?” His brows spiked in surprise.

  “Make yourself visible, you make yourself a target. For some it’s a sort of elitist thing—all about being the right amount and kind of Indian, as defined by them of course. Others benefit from keeping the club as small as possible.” She turned her back on him, changing the subject before it completely killed her very nice buzz. “You’d better get to work with that blow-dryer before I decide to make you warm me up some other way. I don’t trust an ancient diaper stuffed in a vent to keep us from embarrassing Analise.”

  He laughed. “I don’t think that’s possible. And it would serve her right.”

  He switched on the dryer and Carma relaxed into the gentle stroke of his hands, letting the warm stream of air blow away the negativity. For this moment they could just be, and forget about the rest.

  Chapter 24

  Gil kept waiting for Carma to pepper him with questions about his appointment with Tori, but they didn’t come.

  Maybe it was a trick. Bing said silence was a vacuum—it sucked the truth out of her patients. Two school counselors had tried it on Gil, plus that one cop. He hadn’t felt an overwhelming urge to confess that yes, he had given the Earnest Pioneer statue a pair of acorn squash balls and a zucchini dick.

  Damn fine artwork, if you asked Gil.

  If Carma was playing him, she was really good at it. The music, the sex, her own confessions: it was all tailor-made to beat down his resistance. Or she was simply reading him, mirroring his emotions, and giving him what he needed the way the Internet article said. How could either of them really know?

  Which was bullshit, and he knew it. The sex had been incredible. Intense. Mind-blowing. But that kiss on the landing had struck a chord so deep his heart was still quivering. It had done the same to Carma. He’d seen the impact in her eyes. They could leave it unspoken but it couldn’t be unfelt.

  That single kiss had turned every one of their ground rules into a joke—and neither of them was laughing.

  But he wasn’t freaking out, either. Didn’t have an overwhelming urge to make a run for it. His only compulsion was to sit and run his fingers through Carma’s hair. Maybe it was that weird thing he’d seen on the internet. He
’d rolled his eyes when, in one of his desperate quests for sleep, he’d stumbled across online videos of women brushing their hair that claimed to be the cure for insomnia. Now he wondered if he should have paid more attention. It was pretty damn hypnotic.

  Before he’d consciously decided to speak, his voice was saying, “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought, If I could have one more chance…”

  She had been still before. Now she went utterly motionless, as if she had stopped the beating of her heart. After a moment, her answer whispered out. “Thousands, I imagine.”

  “At least.” Like releasing a safety valve, thoughts spilled out through the tiny opening he’d allowed. “Now I have that chance, and I don’t know if I can take it.”

  She didn’t comment, just turned her head slightly to signal that she was listening.

  “Assuming I could find the time—and that’s a huge assumption—what if I got hurt again? Not just my hip. Anything. If I broke an arm and had to have surgery, it could trigger a relapse.”

  She nodded.

  “I know, I could have an appendix attack tomorrow and be right in the same boat. But the odds are definitely higher if I was riding.” He gathered a fistful of her hair, lifting the damp ends off her back and into the stream of warm air. “I’ve barely made time to spend with Quint, but I can find a way to take off rodeoing? How’s that gonna make him feel? I mean, yeah, I would take him with me, but what if he’d rather be at basketball camp than watching his old man get his ass kicked by a bunch of rookies?”

  “Are you worried you’re too old?” Carma asked.

  “Delon is two years younger than me, and he’s sick to death of people asking when he’s gonna retire,” he grumbled.

  “So you’re worried people will think you’re too old.”

  “No!” Then he scowled. “Some. I don’t want to be one of those pathetic has-beens who don’t know when to quit.”