by Alex Hayes
Rowan is too horrified to speak. The looks on their faces would be comical if the implications weren’t so serious.
I reach out, touch her hand and send a wave of healing calm.
Her shoulders relax and the sharp edges of her emotions soften.
Meanwhile, Idris looks ready to have a heart attack. “I’d better call Nicole and find out what exactly happened. Where’s my phone?”
Grabbing his arm, I send the same calming energy into him. “Calling her and admitting you have no clue what happened is the worst possible thing you could do. You’d give her a free pass to make up whatever she wanted.”
Idris looks ready to gag, but not from the alcohol poisoning. “I have to know if she and I… Shit! Cadi’ll never forgive me.”
“Idris, calm down.” Rowan’s eyes are wide. “She’ll be awake soon and she’ll know how upset you are. Whatever happened here tonight wasn’t your fault. If you had sex with that bitch, then she raped you. End of story. You’re the victim.”
His throat constricts, and I think the guy might be close to tears.
Rowan’s arms close around him. “It’s not your fault. She’ll forgive you. Okay?”
He doesn’t make a sound as his face burrows into her shoulder, but the guy is clearly cut to shreds. Guess I can’t blame him; this whole situation is a total crock.
I treat him again with a dose of healing. His heartbeat slows and his blood pressure drops back to normal.
Idris’s eyes are dry but their pupils dilated. “That picture in the Enquirer. That’s how this all started. That must be what motivated Nicole to fake that we’re together.” He shakes his head. “Those freaking paparazzi.”
He looks up at me, and I’ve no doubt about the thoughts churning through his mind. “You were there, weren’t you? At that party when Nicole tripped. I sensed your crystal.”
His eyes narrow, the anger overtaking them unmistakable, and I get this uncomfortable feeling that my throat is about to be slit.
“Rowan said you were a photographer,” he continues.
Yeah, here it comes. Not exactly the circumstance I’d have chosen for this revelation, but I don’t think I could lie and get away with it if I tried.
“Yeah.” I lift my chin high. “A press photographer.”
If the look in Idris’s eyes could kill, I’d have died a very painful death. Poetic justice, perhaps, given the business I’m in, but what I fear most is the anger rising off the crystal in my chest. The anger that isn’t mine.
I take a slow step backward, his words reaching my brain before Idris states them. “You mean a paparazzo?”
His eyes press closed, then open again. “You took that picture, didn’t you? The one of her and me.” His body shakes with pent-up anguish. “How much did you get for it?” His black eyes cut slits into me as his jaw works. “I hope it was a lot because that fucking photograph triggered the avalanche that’s just obliterated my life.”
I should be worried Idris will take a swing at me, but all I’m thinking about is the fury bubbling off Rowan.
Her whole body shakes. “You’re one of the paparazzi?” She doesn’t want to believe it. Denial fights so hard against doubt. For me.
She wants me to tell her it’s not true, that I’m a smiley-faced wedding photographer who saves people from strokes and heart attacks on the side. Not a lowlife asshole who screws up the lives of people like Idris Williams.
“You got me.” What else can I say?
“How could you?” The tears in her eyes shatter my heart into so many pieces there’ll never be any hope of reassembly. Even for me. The guy who fixes things. The guy who mended flowers for her.
I shrug as all my tough-guy emotional armor comes rolling out, assembling itself into a life-hardened shell that’s no match for the look in her eyes.
“I’d say I’m sorry, if I thought it’d help.” I pick up the two-liter bottle of water and push it at Idris. “Keep drinking, you’ve got another hour before you’re well enough to walk.” I head for the door, then pause and turn.
I glance at Rowan, then look at Idris. “Take care of each other.”
The drive home is the longest in my life. The entire way, my thoughts circle endlessly, like a hamster on a treadmill, going nowhere.
My guilt is boundless. Even so, anger works its way free.
I can’t blame Rowan for being furious, and Azera bears no responsibility for selling the shot. I fucked up royally, letting that image find its way into the shared drop folder, and then I lied to Rowan. Not outright, but by omission. I should’ve told her the truth the day we met.
Azera’s already up when I arrive home at five a.m.
Her eyebrows hit the ceiling. “I thought you were in bed.”
“I wish.” I drop my elbows to the kitchen countertop and bury my face in my hands.
Azera lays an arm across my shoulders. “Connie, what’s up?”
“I take back what I said about you going out with Ryker or that Justin guy. Romance is for the birds.”
A thin laugh escapes her. “You are a bird, Connie. Tell me what happened?”
“I screwed up. Everything that’s wrong in my life I brought down on myself. You can put that on my tombstone when I die.”
Azera gives me a light shove. “That is the biggest kettle of bullshit, like…ever.”
“I chose to be a paparazzo. I chose to take pictures of people whose lives I have no business intruding into. Stalking them. Invading their privacy. Feeding the obsessions of the masses. I chose to be one of the lowest forms of life on Earth.”
“What did that girl say to you?” Her voice shakes with fury. “She has no business judging you. How many lives have you saved, Connie?”
I sigh. “You know I don’t count.”
“Well, I do. One hundred and sixty-eight. Sixty-nine, if you include Jax.”
I glance up, surprised by the number. “Jax is a good guy. You need to count him too.”
She squeezes me across the back with an arm as firm as a steel band. “You’ve got to let her go and move on. She isn’t worth the memory storage. You’re worth a thousand of her kind.”
Except Rowan is worth everything. That’s the problem. That, and our connection. It’s not like I can turn off my awareness that she’s suffering. That she’s hurting. Because of me.
But explaining that connection to Azera is impossible. If I tell her about my link with Rowan, then I’ll have to tell her I’m an alien, a refugee from another planet. My shape-shifting and healing abilities are strange enough on their own.
Somehow, I managed to convince us both that my skills were the fruits of some Asian mysticism, an ex-pat of a community in the Himalayas or something.
But an alien from another planet?
She’d laugh me right out of town.
“I want out, Az. I’m tired of doing this job.” She wanted to join Ryker’s team anyway. Let her have her job security.
Azera’s arm drops to her side. “Because some girl won’t accept you for who you are?”
I’m not even sure who I am.
“You’re the real photographer, Az. I’m an amateur. Taking pictures isn’t my passion. It never was.”
“Then stick to finding me gigs. You don’t have to be a photog.”
“One photographer isn’t enough. You know that. We’re stretched as it is getting from gig to gig.”
And I’ve had enough of being an asshole paparazzo. That Rowan was disgusted proves what I already knew. The job hasn’t felt right for a long time. Maybe never. I’m not a good person when I’m doing that work. I become one of the pricks I abhor.
“Look, Connie. I’ve been thinking. What if we changed things up? What if we recruited a few photographers, scoped out the best of the best and changed our tactics?”
I clench my hands into fists. “It’s not as simple as the photography. It’s the way our pictures affect people’s lives that I can’t stand. A guy almost died because of one of my pictures.”
Her lips part. “How the hell?”
“One of my photographs spurred this chick to take advantage of a guy.”
“Take advantage? Of a guy?” Disbelief swims in her eyes. “How?”
“She…” How do I explain Idris Williams’ intolerance to alcohol without setting off alarm bells? Azera knows about my intolerance all too well. “She drugged him, so she could set herself up next to him on a bed. You know, take pictures and post them on social media. She OD’ed the guy. He could’ve died.”
“That’s awful, Connie. God, which picture?” She looks truly horrified. “We’ll donate the money we made on that shot. We can’t keep it.”
Her heart’s in the right place, but…
I sigh. “What’s to stop this kind of crap from happening again?”
She frowns. “Which picture was it, Connie? I want to know.”
“That guy you saw on my computer. Idris Williams. I took a picture the night before. The girl tripped and he caught her. That one-hit-wonder Nicole… You know the one I’m talking about?”
“Nicole Robertson?”
“That’s the one. Yeah.”
“She’s all but slipped into obscurity over the past year.” Azera shakes her head vehemently. “But I never sold a photograph of her and that Williams guy.”
“I dropped it in the shared folder. I didn’t mean to—”
“Connell, I didn’t sell that photograph. I’ve never seen a picture like that.” Her eyes flash. “That siren girl of yours made the whole thing up.”
I stare at her. Then I’m off my chair, running down the hall to my laptop. Dropping into my desk chair, I search the shared folder. The image isn’t there. I check my local drive. The damned photograph isn’t there either. “What the hell?” I click over to my trash folder, and there it sits. I deleted the image.
Williams couldn’t have made that story up though. There’s no way.
I type in a search on Williams and Nicole Robertson. Top of the list is a thumbnail of the very picture I took. I click the link, examine the larger image and realize it’s not mine. Relief floods my system.
I scroll down to the photo credit. “Fucking Danvers!”
“Ryker’s right-hand?” Azera stands in the doorway, arms akimbo.
I swing my desk chair to face her. “He was there. I’m pretty sure he followed me to that gig because I learned about it through live intel when no one else was around. And that asshole took the same shot.”
“Never really liked Danvers,” Azera murmurs.
I growl. “I’ve never liked any of Ryker’s team. Especially Ryker.”
She steps into the room. “But you’re in the clear now, right?”
I rock back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. “It doesn’t make any difference. I am what I am. A loser.”
“You’re not a loser, Connie. How did you let that girl crush you? She’s not worth the time of day. And certainly not worth messing up your whole life. If I ever see that siren bitch, I’m gonna kill her.”
“It’s not because of Rowan, Az. It’s because she’s right.”
26
Cadi
Waking with a start, I rub my swollen belly and recollect the strange dream I just had. The weirdest dream I’ve ever had.
A tornado took residence in my stomach and water swirled in a—thankfully clean—white porcelain bowl. I vomited and the water turned green. Or maybe that was my vision. Guilt consumed me.
Why would I feel guilty about being sick?
I take a deep breath as the images fade and roll onto my side.
The sun’s just up, slanting a cold wintry light through a narrow gap in my curtains. I slide to the edge of the bed and sit up.
My crystal pulses and that strange guilt washes over me again. Not just guilt. Horror, too.
Idris?
I rub a silken palm over my face and reach for my phone. A quick text to him: Hey, you okay? You seem kind of stressed.
He doesn’t answer, so I tug on sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt. I’m glad Idris isn’t around to see just how casual I’ve become.
After a trip to the bathroom, I grab my phone. No response.
Idris has to be asleep. He probably had a bad dream, like mine, though I can usually tell the difference. Emotions in dreams are more soft-edged than waking feelings.
What I feel now seems sharp, almost tactile.
Maybe he’s sick. That would fit the throwing-up dream that woke me.
The doorbell rings. Seems early for visitors.
Tromping to the window, I hook an arm under my belly, and feel a kick. Baby Williams is awake.
Looking outside, my mouth forms an O. A stretch limo stands in the driveway, windows tinted as black as its glossy paint job.
What the heck?
I sneak to the top of the staircase to listen, taking care to keep out of sight, given my lizard state.
Murmurs at the front door. I back a few feet down the hall.
“Come in and have a seat. I’ll fetch her.” Mama’s voice is followed by the unfamiliar clack, clack, clack of heeled shoes across stone tile.
I look down at my sweatpants and fuzzy slippers, and grimace. I’m hardly dressed for company.
“Cadi?” Mama calls as she climbs the stairs.
“What’s up?” I ask as she rounds the railing at the top of the staircase.
“There you are, dear.” There’s a worried frown on her face.
“Is something wrong?”
“Idris’s mother is here to see you.”
My eyes pop open. “Mrs. Williams?” I glance down at my belly and bite my lip.
Idris’s mom hasn’t seen me since I got pregnant. In fact, we’ve only met a few times and only in passing. Whenever I saw her, Janice Williams had a deep frown cut into her beautiful forehead that dissolved every ounce of my self-confidence. The woman hates me.
I swallow. “I’d better change my clothes.” And my face.
Mama squeezes my arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you. If that woman so much as looks at you crooked, she’ll be out the door.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Wish I believed that.
I hurry to my room for stretchy jeans and a sweater, not wanting to keep my nemesis waiting.
Five minutes in human form and I’m already tired. The feeling multiplies as I step into the living room and face Mrs. Williams.
She stands. High heels make her look taller than me by several feet. She’s slim and wearing a silvery pantsuit with a white satin blouse underneath. The perfect combination of corporate and chic.
Intimidating, to say the least.
Molten chocolate eyes meet mine. Stunning and scary.
Idris’s mom pulls in a deep breath and lets it out in a huff. Her eyes slide over my protruding belly. “You’re looking well, I see.”
Ugh. Seriously? I feel terrible. All I want to do is creep to my room and change back into my lizard bod and loose sweatpants.
It doesn’t help that Idris’s emotions are all over the place and he isn’t answering my texts. Something is very wrong, and this woman appears out of the blue to frown and huff at me.
I force what I hope is a genuine-looking smile. “How can I help you, Mrs. Williams?”
Could I ever call this woman Mom? Could I ever see her holding my green scaly baby?
Nope. Both of those scenarios expand far beyond the outer limits of my imagination.
She gives me a pained look that tells me she wants something and having to ask is nearly killing her. “I’m here about my son.”
The blood drains from my face. I knew something was wrong. My hand darts to my breastbone as I direct a question to my crystal. Is Idris sick?
The stone hums in response. He’s okay. Not wonderful. Not perfect. Just okay.
“Wh-what about Idris?”
Her brow twists. “I take it you haven’t been on Instagram today?”
I blink and shake my head.
Janice Williams pulls a silver-cased cell
phone from her shiny black pocketbook, activates it and holds out the device.
With a nervous shuffle, I draw close enough to see the screen. An image of Idris curled up in his underwear asleep next to a girl with an oversized grin and cleavage to match. The caption above reads, Me and my girl.
My throat locks up because that girl is definitely not me. I gulp. “He posted that?”
Mrs. Williams’ eyes narrow into thin lines. “The picture was posted on his Instagram account. That he posted it…” She harrumphs. “I have my doubts.” She looks at me pointedly. “Did you know he was going out with another girl? Did you see that ridiculous picture in the Enquirer?”
“He said she tripped.” Suddenly, I feel light-headed. Whether because I’m pushing the limits of being in human form or because my fiancé might be cheating on me, I’m not sure.
To save myself the embarrassment of collapsing at this woman’s feet, I back up and lower myself onto the sofa.
Mrs. Williams drops her phone into the maw of her purse. “Tripped. Yes, that’s what he told me. I’ve been calling and texting him for the past two hours. No answer.” Her lips press into a disapproving line. “My son has never ignored my calls.”
“Maybe Rowan knows what’s going on,” I murmur.
Too bad my phone’s upstairs, or I’d call her. I’ll go get it in a minute, when I have the strength. I sense my staying-in-human-form window is closing fast.
Idris’s mother nods. “We can only hope. You can call her on the way.”
My head bounces up. “On the way?”
“Yes. I’ve hired a car to take us to Los Angeles. The drivers have promised to get us there within thirty-six hours.”
Mama’s hand lands on my shoulder. “She can’t possibly travel all that way. Cadi’s struggling to stay in…uh, her present form, as it is, and it’s only been twenty minutes since she changed. Idris agreed she should remain here until she’s had the baby.”
