Spectre

by Shiloh Walker

  I also hoped I didn’t have trouble falling asleep with her in the room.

  Closing my eyes, I snuggled down under the covers.

  Valkyrie made a snuffling sort of sound, a doggie sigh, then her breathing settled into a soft pattern so faint I could barely make it out.

  It made me smile and I decided she wasn’t the snoring type.

  I’d sleep fine.

  I WAS WRONG.

  But it wasn’t Valkyrie keeping me awake.

  I’d made the mistake of going through the day, including those mental snapshots I’d taken of various people. I did that a lot. Only one person had really caught my attention today.

  Carved cheekbones, a perfect mouth. He’d worn a hat—I didn’t like hats really, but I hadn’t been able to make out anything about his hair so it must have been pretty short. What color was it, I wondered. His eyes?

  Not that it much mattered. My attention kept wandering back to his mouth, the set of his eyes, even if I hadn’t been able to make out the color. The breadth of his shoulders.

  A shaky sigh slipped out of me. It had been way too long since I’d had sex, I decided. It was a complicated thing anyway, because getting to know somebody well enough to want to touch them, and let them touch me could lead to disaster, but the kind of guys who tended to be okay with taking their time were also looking for more than I wanted...from them, at least.

  I needed a male Bianca.

  If we were both bi, it would be a great arrangement, probably, but that was neither here nor now and it wasn’t helping my current situation.

  I started to slip my hand into my pajama pants, but stopped, remembering the dog. Easing closer to the edge, I peered at her. She was sleeping. I wasn’t going to go to another room to masturbate in my own house. It wasn’t like she could gossip about it, right?

  Eyes closed, I slid my hand past the waistband of the loose cotton pants, past my panties, and downward until my fingers touched the curls between my thighs.

  I bet he’s hung, Bianca had said.

  I doubt it, I’d told her.

  And he probably wasn’t but that was reality, and right now I was alone in my bed and I could imagine anything, including him in my bedroom, stripping his clothes off. And in my imagination, oh, yes...I decided he would indeed be hung.

  I whimpered and slid my fingers inside my pussy while imagining it was him. My clit pulsed, hard and aching, as I stroked my thumb over it, pretending it was his tongue.

  He was the one riding me through climax, while I bent over in front of him, his hands gripping my hips. In reality, I arched up against my own touch, sweating and straining toward climax. In my imagination, he said my name and whispered dirty things to me.

  And in both reality and my imagination, I came.

  When it was over and my breathing had slowed, I realized I was being watched.

  Cheeks flushed, I turned my head and saw Valkyrie had sat up in her bed and was watching me, nose at work and ears up.

  “Are you going to be one of those pervy dogs who likes to watch their owner have sex?”

  I have no idea if dogs can roll their eyes, but it sure as hell looked like she did. Then as I sat up to go wash my hands and change my panties, she lay down and put her head on her paws, looking away from me, giving the appearance of boredom.

  Amused, I said, “Nobody invited you to watch in the first place.”

  I WAS AWAKE.

  Lying in the bed, I tried to figure out what had woken me. Eyes closed, I listened. Everything was utterly still and silent. As always. I started to close my eyes, then stopped, pushing upright. Valkyrie’s bed was empty. I snapped my fingers but didn’t hear the familiar click, click, click of her nails. I tugged the scarf from my head out of habit as I slid from the bed.

  It was a little past midnight.

  Absently, I glanced down the hall toward the back door.

  I froze.

  It was too dark.

  The bright light that illuminated the backyard wasn’t on. An odd sensation tickled the back of my throat. I stepped back, thinking about the phone I’d left by my bed. “Valkyrie?”

  I heard a faint whimper.

  Forgetting the phone, I rushed forward, following the sound. Faint light filtered in from the kitchen. I always left it on and was relieved to see it. But then I saw my dog. “Valkyrie!”

  I lunged for her, skidding to my knees. “No, no, no, no...”

  I pulled her head into my lap, already shaking, rocking back and forth. “What did I do wrong, girl? Did I do something wrong?”

  The floorboards creaked behind me. The cabin, made of wooden beams and sparkling glass windows and plank wood floors, had a habit of creaking and groaning and I’d become familiar with the various sounds.

  This particular noise was the sound of somebody walking across the floor. Their footsteps were soundless, but the relatively new boards still creaked and groaned as they accommodated a person’s weight.

  My breath froze in my chest.

  “You didn’t do anything to the dog,” a calm voice said behind me.

  My entire brain went red hot and I understood, for once, what people meant when they said they saw red.

  “You hurt my fucking dog.” Easing her head down, I bunched my muscles. “Didn’t you?”

  There was no response.

  With a sound I didn’t even recognize, I surged up and spun, my hands clasped together. It was blind instinct. Mac had taught me basic self-defense and I had sucked at it. Every time he came at me, my instinct was to freeze and I couldn’t stop it.

  Instinct drove me now, too.

  A tall, lean man stood behind me, his face vaguely familiar. At my blow, he jerked back.

  I moved again, blind to everything but the need to hurt.

  “Tell Tommy O’Halloran he can suck dick!” I shouted at him, swinging again.

  This time, he caught my wrists and jerked me against him, pivoting and moving. As the world spun around me, terror threatened to overtake the rage, but from the corner of my eye, I saw Valkyrie. She whimpered again and lifted her head slightly, a thin sliver of her dark eyes showing as if she wanted to look at me. I howled. Or tried to. He clamped his gloved hand over my mouth. His other had my wrists clamped in front of me. Somehow, he’d also managed to swing me far enough into the kitchen so that I was pinned against the cabinet, my lower body all but immobilized.

  Burning shock went through me. His body, hot enough that I could feel him through his clothes and mine, was all long, lean muscles. I could feel his breath in my ear, his lightly stubbled cheek rasping against mine.

  It had been a couple of years since I’d let anybody get this close to me.

  You didn’t let him. Make him get away, inner logic dictated.

  But I couldn’t and the panic started to set in. A keening noise tried to well up. I couldn’t breathe. He’d hurt my dog. I was trapped. He’d hurt my dog.

  I bit him.

  Behind me, he tensed. But the hand over my mouth didn’t move even as I bit down harder and harder.

  “Your dog isn’t hurt. Merely drugged. She’ll wake up. Will you please take your teeth out of my hand before you tear a chunk of flesh out?”

  I bit harder. He’d drugged my dog?

  “For fuck’s sake.” He leaned more firmly into me and let go of my hands. Oh, big mistake. I swung back, trying to punch him, but nothing effective landed. Logic intervened as I remembered where in the kitchen I was. Stretching out a hand, I barely managed to wrap my fingers around the handle of one of the knives in the chopping block.

  Something pierced my neck.

  I jerked away, but not fast enough. Drugged!

  I swung back with the knife. It wasn’t one of the bigger ones, but it was sharp. A fillet knife. His sharp intake of breath, followed by a guttural swear was like music. He let me go and backed away. I spun around, brandishing the knife.

  He had his hands up. “Put it down, Ms. Jenkins. The medication will hit soon—”


  “Fuck...” I stopped, because the word sounded wrong. My voice sounded wrong. “You drugged me.”

  Emotion flickered in his eyes. “Just enough so you’ll sleep.”

  “Great.” I blew a raspberry at him, swaying a little. Bracing my hand on the counter behind me, I said, “So I won’t be conscious when you kill me? Or are you taking me to Tommy so he can do it?”

  “I’m not taking you to Tommy.”

  “Liar.” My throat thickened. “Just...leave my dog here. Okay? My brother will call me tomorrow. He alwash...always does.” I blinked hard, trying to clear the dots from my eyes. “Leave the dog. He’ll take care of her. If you didn’t kill her. There’s no reason for that fuckface to hurt me and my dog.”

  “I...”

  I swayed again, the dots at the edge of my vision finally connecting to form clouds.

  He was talking. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard his voice. Why was he trying to sound reassuring?

  “You’re a motherfucker,” I said, smiling suddenly. It must be the drugs. That was the only thing that made sense. Why else would I smile?

  I looked down and saw the knife in my hands. It was wet and red with blood. “I stabbed you. I hope it hurts.”

  Mac would be sick once he figured out Tommy had gotten me. Just sick.

  Maybe...

  A sick, desperate, determined thought hit me.

  I was dead anyway. Tommy had sent this son of a bitch after me. But I had the knife. I still had control, for now. And I didn’t have to let Tommy win. I didn’t have to let him hurt Mac the way he wanted to, did I?

  Sheer impulse driving me, I looked at the man’s startlingly pleasant face and smiled even wider. “Tell Tommy to fuck off.”

  Wrapping both hands around the handle, I pointed the tip toward my belly.

  Chapter 7

  Spectre

  “For fuck’s sake.” She struggled harder and I let go of her hands to focus on sedating her. Her body was wild and hot as lightning. I tried to ignore it as I pulled out the syringe, but I couldn’t. Her warmth, her scent...her softness. She swung backward and I wrapped my left arm around her upper body, pinning her torso to me.

  She moved far faster than I expected. She also didn’t display anywhere near the fear she should have. Everything about her threw me off, including how she’d managed to grab one of the cheaply made butcher knives I’d noticed on my initial walk-through of the house. I hadn’t noticed that because of my insane reaction to the feel of her moving against me. That never happened. Locking my jaw, I pushed the plunger on the syringe and tried to ignore her wriggling, struggling warmth.

  Sick fuck. She’s scared and fighting and you’re getting a hard-on.

  But even my mental castigation wasn’t enough.

  In the blink of an eye, I went from detached and focused on the matter at hand to focusing on her—the round, lush feeling of her ass as she shoved against me, the flex of her legs as she fought. If my brain had been where it needed to be, instead of being suddenly tied up with my wayward dick, I would have noticed the knife sooner.

  As it was, I barely had time to shift before she made the wild plunge backward. She drove it into my thigh and the blade pierced flesh in a way that it went in through the lateral area, like she wanted to peel away the top layers of skin and muscle a bit at time before exiting.

  Instinctively, I jerked my leg straight back just as she wrenched her hand forward to attack again.

  The pain hadn’t hit yet but it would.

  I’d also made the fatal mistake of loosening my hold a fraction, giving her the chance to turn.

  Ignoring the first bloom of pain, I evaded as she made an awkward attempt to lunge. I grunted, then swore.

  She swung around and glared at me, the cheap knife wet and gleaming red.

  It would have been laughable—me, standing there bleeding while she started to sway, holding a knife that likely had never cut anything tougher than my own skin.

  “Put it down, Ms. Jenkins. The medication will hit your system soon—”

  “Fuck...” The word came out too thick and slow. She cleared her throat and rapidly blinked her eyes. “You drugged me.”

  For some insane reason, the befuddlement in her voice, the anger, it bothered me. Blood spread up my neck to stain my cheeks red.

  “Just enough so you’ll sleep.”

  What the fuck. Why am I explaining myself?

  “Great.” She sagged backward and made a rude sound, blinking owlishly as she stared at me. “So I won’t be conscious when you kill me? Or are you taking me to Tommy so he can do it?”

  “I’m not taking you to Tommy.” That was the last thing I’d do.

  “Liar. Just leave my dog here. Okay? My brother will call me tomorrow. He alwash...always does. Leave the dog. He’ll take care of her. If you didn’t kill her. There’s no reason for that fuckface to hurt me and my dog.”

  Her voice was thicker now and something that might have been tears lit her eyes along with the anger.

  Shit. Something hot and uncomfortable settled in my gut, even as rage started to fester and flame in the back of my head, a toxic, deadly mixture. Tommy, you don’t know it but you’re already dead.

  “I’m not taking you to O’Halloran, Tia.” I frowned at the sound of my voice forming her name, but I couldn’t take it back. I didn’t even want to.

  “You’re a motherfucker. I stabbed you. I hope it hurts.” She gave me a wobbly smile and her lids drooped. Then, a second later, she looked back at me with a bright, almost fevered smile. “Tell Tommy to fuck off.”

  I was almost too late.

  Lunging forward, I caught the blade right before she would have gutted herself, closing my hands around hers and engaging in a brief tug of war. She screamed, the sound ragged, raw and desperate. I got the knife away and hurled it across the room.

  She swung wide at me, missing by inches, then stumbled, almost falling. I caught her and felt a fresh rush of hot blood flow down my leg. I needed to get my leg dealt with and bandaged, but I couldn’t yet. Not until I knew she wasn’t going to do something foolish.

  “You miserable fucker,” she mumbled, growing limper with each passing second. She glared at me, more emotion showing on her face now than I’d seen. “You’re a miserable fucker. Are you going to hurt my dog, too?”

  “No.” I brushed her hair back from her face, not even aware of the action until it was already done. “I won’t hurt the dog.”

  “Okay.” She relaxed, oddly enough. “You’re still miserable and I hate you.”

  “I understand. You’re safe, Tia. I won’t hurt you.” Her lids drooped low and she sighed, the sedative finally taking hold.

  BY THE TIME I MANAGED to deal with my leg, the dog was stirring. I hadn’t planned on the animal and the sedative I preferred to use was short-acting. I hadn’t brought anything else into the house with me and I’d already spent far too much time here.

  I couldn’t risk trailing blood through the house while looking for a first aid kit, so I improvised. That was something I excelled at. The entrance wound bled steadily enough that a bandage alone wouldn’t do it. I’d found super glue in the meticulously organized kitchen drawer, and used it to seal it the best I could. Then, using a pad of paper towels as a makeshift bandage, I hunted down a first aid kit—she’d have one. This neat house, the organization, I had no doubt of it.

  The kit, under the sink in the bathroom, looked like something a pro would be proud to own and I was able to bandage it properly.

  I lingered only long enough to take care of the blood in the kitchen, using bleach and paper towels that I flushed one by one. There was no way to know if I’d gotten everything but at least there was no obvious sign that a man had bled like a stuck pig in here.

  Even though the injury hurt, I found myself smiling as I opened the door to Tia’s closet. I didn’t get surprised often and hadn’t ever had a woman throw me off balance.

  Don’t spend time wondering over it right
now. You have to get her away from here.

  Her and the dog.

  We needed miles between us and this house, well before Tommy sent in somebody else. He wouldn’t waste any time once he realized I wasn’t taking the job.

  Stepping into the oversized, walk-in closet, I almost turned around and left. It was too big, an airy, feminine space that instantly made me feel out of place and out of my depth.

  Organized with ruthless precision, there were built-in drawers of soft peach, open shelves stacked neatly with T-shirts, grouped by color. Sweaters were folded on another set of shelves and also organized, not only by color, it appeared, but by material as well. There was a section for dresses, organized by season and color, and by length and occasion as far as I could tell. A few dressier pieces at one end, with the rest of them casual, all marching in a perfect rainbow.

  Jeans stacked on one shelf and below them, another set of stacks, all cotton and various shades of colors. More pants, I assumed. Judging by her organizational craze, she wouldn’t be putting shirts over there.

  Moving deeper into the managed chaos of color, I spied the shelf where she kept a couple of duffels and below that, four weekend-sized suitcases, the sort one she could take on an airplane. None were the plain, solid color people typically used. Instead, they were patterned with outdoor scenes. One showed a wintry landscape, while another depicted a beach and one looked like New England in the fall. I touched that one with the tips of my fingers, thinking of Massachusetts and the lighthouse Sarge had left to me when he died.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, I acted on instinct and grabbed the one with the winter landscape. I wasn’t surprised to feel the weight of it. I didn’t know if she’d been planning a trip or if she routinely kept suitcases packed, but it was convenient. Putting it on the bed, I flipped it open and checked. Several pairs of jeans, socks, underwear and bras. Inside a packing cube, I spied a couple of sweaters. Judging by the colors visible, at least two.