He was good at it, yeah. And so? He was good at a metric fuckton of unspeakable things. That didn’t mean he would ever do them again. He’d won his freedom back. Obsidian could go suck its own dick.
But he’d do sentinel sleep for Simone. He’d do any number of desperate, unspeakable things for a chance to find out what happened to his brother.
Besides, watching Brightman prance around in her underwear was no chore. She was so damn pretty it just turned his head around. Why sleep when he could look at that?
She was almost upon him. His ASP processor sent a fire-hose of data scrolling wildly up both sides of his field of vision. His senses sharpened to a level beyond painful. He hadn’t expected this. Bullshit timing.
Her footsteps echoed in his ears, boom-scrape-squeak. Her soft breathing, the quick and steady drum of her heart. He smelled the warm mix of her hand lotion, her wool coat, the leather of her boots, heard the swish of her long skirt, the brush of wool tights between her thighs. He smelled the coffee she’d had not long ago and a hint of the vanilla flavored creamer she’d lightened it with. Whiffs of the perfume she used to wear back in her corporate days wafted out of her purse like little ghosts.
He also smelled the festering mouth-breathers who waited across the street.
His heart thudded loudly. In a few seconds, he’d see Simone in the flesh. The mysterious ex-fianceé of Noah Gallagher, Zade’s friend and fellow Midlander rebel.
A woman who might or might not hold the key to the last possible clue that could lead him to his brother.
Or to his brother’s bones.
That thought stabbed through him like a thin blade of ice just as Simone Brightman rounded the corner and hit his line of vision.
Showtime.
* * * *
Of course she’d left her umbrella in the car on the one night that the rain decided to dial it up from the usual Seattle drizzle and start pelting down. At least she had the right boots for the rain these days. No more fancy designer shoes for her. She was done striving for feminine perfection. Who gave a shit?
Years of effort, down the drain. She was so done with it.
She tried to hang on to the happy buzz hanging out with her Sci-Tech team gave her. She loved those kids. Creative to the max. Going places, all of them.
They were a complicated bunch. Too smart for their own good. Builders, makers, coders, geeks, videogame nerds, hackers. She scrambled to keep their hungry, restless minds busy. They’d had a blast brainstorming tonight. Goofy, giddy fun.
Goofiness was in short supply in her life. Those kids had taught her how it felt.
There would be no more fun tonight, that was for sure. Her happy buzz was draining away and that strange roar was filling up her head again. Stabbing pains, flashing lights, and that constant, grinding noise.
It started last year after she broke up with her first fiancé, Jordan. Then, after the humiliating episode with Noah and his exotic belly dancer, the problem had gotten abruptly worse.
Stress, her family doctor said, before handing her a scribbled prescription and recommending hypnotism. Not. She did not want Dr. Laera’s flesh-creeping hypnosis sessions, and the drugs the doctor prescribed put her into a robotic fog. She felt like crap most of the time, but she preferred misery to feeling nothing at all.
Lately, the predominant feeling had been fear. Because Mom’s illness had started like this. Just exactly like this, when Simone was twelve.
You either inherited the gene mutation or you didn’t. Don’t anticipate the suffering. That way you suffer twice. Simone repeated that silent mantra as she turned the corner and hit the button on her key fob. The car squawked and flashed a greeting. Rain was beating down even harder now, so she made a dash for it, splashing through dirty water rushing through the gutter.
She pulled open the door and plopped down into the leather seat, shivering as she listened to the rain drumming on the roof.
Breathe. Think of nothing. Or just good things. She’d enjoyed four great hours with the Sci-Tech team. She could try to call Megan, her oldest friend ever since that first Mayburg summer internship years ago. They had shared an apartment through college and grad school. Two girl nerds against the world. The original idea had been for Megan to fly in to visit her and hold her hand while she got the test results. Then Megan’s asshat boss insisted on sending her to some conference in England.
Still, evening in Seattle was morning in England. If anything could make her feel better, it would be hearing Megan’s voice.
Get that heater going. She shuddered, teeth chattering, thinking of the hot tea she’d make at home. Honey and lemon, to warm her from the inside. Her hand was so cold and numb, she couldn’t get the key into the ignition.
After a few stabs, it went in, but all she got when she turned it was click, click, click. No purr of a motor humming to life, no lights, no heater’s comforting hum.
She tried again. Click. Click. Her car was dead. But it was an excellent car. Almost new. Recently serviced. What the hell?
She popped the hood and the trunk and got out. Rummaged through the odds and ends in the trunk until she found the flashlight, a super nerdy one that she could strap to her head like a spelunker. She grabbed a heavy wrench, just in case something needed banging back into place.
Lifting the hood, she saw the problem at once. The battery cables were ripped off the battery and cut so that they couldn’t be reattached.
Someone had sabotaged her car.
Then she heard them. Men’s voices, low and indistinct, but with an aggressive tone that made her skin crawl. They smelled. Armpit fug and cigarette ash.
Simone straightened and turned, shining her headlight into the reddened eyes of a beefy, thick-faced guy with patchy stubble. The man beside him was taller. Lanky and balding.
She tucked the wrench under her arm and yanked out her phone, backing away, but the first guy darted at her and knocked it out of her hand. It hit the brick wall behind her with a sharp crack and broke apart.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Coulda sold that.”
He followed her, his gag-inducing breath a hot cloud in her face. She waited one more moment ... then whipped the pepper spray out of her pocket.
She blasted him right in the eyes.
He screamed and lurched back, pawing at his face. The taller man froze for a second, then his mouth twisted with rage. He leaped at her with a shout.
She slammed the wrench down across his forearm with all her strength.
He howled. Walloped her with his good arm across the side of the head. The wet street swung up and body-slammed her, knocking out her breath and her senses. Everything went dark.
When her hearing slowly came back, what she saw and heard made no sense.
A huge dark silhouette in violent motion. Arms, legs, moving too fast for her tear-blurred eyes to follow. Kicks and blows. Choked squeals of pain.
She focused on a huge, long-haired man in a black leather coat crouched near her, holding her second attacker, his arm clamped across the tall guy’s throat. The trapped man thrashed, clawing at the powerful forearm that barely let him breathe.
“You laid your hands on her, asshole,” the big guy said. “Bad call.”
The guy coughed, sputtered. “But she hit me with a—oof!”
His voice cut off as the leather-clad man rose and let go suddenly. The guy stumbled, arms pinwheeling.
An enormous leather boot connected with his jaw. He yelped and hit the pavement, sprawled in a puddle.
Suddenly the leather-coat man was beside her, sliding an arm behind her back and propping her up. She realized, dazed, that she was lying in a puddle of rain.
“Hey,” he said. “I saw that guy hit you. You okay? Are you hurt?”
She blinked, dumbstruck. The man before her was unbelievably handsome. Not a hallucination. She caught his scen
t. Leather, salt, musk. She drew it in again, greedily. “Y-yes,” she stammered.
She did a swift inventory, assessing herself for damage. She was bruised and shaky. Her ear had gotten a sharp, head-ringing whack, but the sensation was fading, driven away by excitement and astonished goggle-eyed gawking.
“How’s your head?” he asked. “Let me look at it. Any bleeding? A bump?”
“I’m fine,” she said, meaning it. “I’m not concussed. I’m really okay.” She looked around for the glasses that had been knocked off her face when she fell.
Her rescuer spotted them before she did and handed them to her. She dug around in her pockets for a tissue to dry them with. Too bad it was still raining hard. She longed to find out if sharp focus made him even more gorgeous.
A sound made them look around. The jaw-kicked attacker was dragging himself onto his knees. In the dim light from the streetlight, he ran a careful hand over his jaw. Then he spat out a bloodied tooth and stared at it in slack-mouthed disbelief.
The other man was rubbing his pepper-stung eyes. “Goddamn fucking cunt!” he howled, lurching toward her.
The man in black leather leaped up and blocked him with an uppercut that sent him flying backward into his companion.
The two men hit the ground together, sprawling and rolling.
“Get lost.” Her rescuer’s low voice was menacing. “And stay lost. Unless you want me to kick you down into the sewer. Got that?”
The men struggled hastily to their feet and broke into a shambling run. The pepper-sprayed guy banged into a street sign, bounced off, and reeled away into the darkness.
Simone stared after them, speechless. Her mind was blank.
The mysterious man crouched next to her again. Rain dripped over his starkly chiseled cheekbones and down to his jaw. He didn’t seem to notice or mind.
His eyes were intent on her face. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. Through layers of cloth, the gentle contact felt like a bright electric shock, releasing a sweet shiver of goosebumps. Her spine straightened. Her chin rose.
She just stared, not caring how bedraggled she must look. Her mind was empty of such considerations. Even the scary, shocking thing that just happened had been pushed to the side. There wasn’t enough space for that and this man to coexist in the same thought cycle. One thing at a time. Him first. For sure.
He waited. Patiently. A faint smile formed on his sensual lips. It suggested that he’d been through this before. Probably rescued spaced-out women from muggers all the time. He just crouched there and let her gawk, his face spotlit by the flashlight that had somehow stayed on her head.
Self-consciousness came flooding back. Shit. She must look crazy in that thing. She pulled it off. Her crocheted hat came off with it and she tried in vain to smooth down her hair. Her gaze darted around the empty street. Her hands had begun to shake.
“You okay?” he asked again. “I can take you to the emergency room.”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Thanks for…uh…that. What you did.”
“It’s nothing. I’m sorry it happened to you. Having trouble with your car?”
“Don’t worry,” she said hastily. “I’ll take care of it.”
He stepped toward the open hood. “Can I take a look?”
She tugged her hat back down over her damp hair. “No need,” she told him. “I know what the problem is.”
His eyebrow shot up. “Already? Really? You do your own car repairs?”
“I’m an engineer,” she said. “I like knowing how machines work.”
He nodded, thoughtfully. Then his gaze was caught by something on the ground gleaming wetly in the streetlight’s glow. The wrench.
“Oh. That’s mine,” she told him.
He picked it up and looked it over. “This is what you used on that fuckhead?”
She nodded.
“I have one just like it,” he said conversationally. “Engines turn me on. I like tearing them apart and putting them back together.”
“You’re a mechanic?”
Her incredulous tone made him grin, which carved deep, beautiful grooves into his cheeks. “What? I don’t look like one?”
No. You look like a sexy movie vampire, a famous extreme athlete, a billionaire rock star. Somehow, she managed not to blurt it out.
He changed the subject. “So what’s the problem with the car?”
“The, ah, battery cables were cut.”
“I see,” he said. “So that’s that. You’re not going anywhere in this car tonight.”
“Nope. I need a tow truck and a taxi. But those guys trashed my phone.”
His face darkened. “Use my phone. I’ll make the calls for you if you want.”
“Thanks, but I still want my phone. Even if it’s in pieces.” She tried to get up, but her legs wobbled and she thudded down into the puddle again.
“Let me help you.” He rose to his feet, bearing her up with him in an effortless anti-gravity surge. She floated up and just kept on floating. At least that was how it felt. Even the waterlogged skirt that clung to her legs couldn’t weigh her down.
He helped her collect the pieces of her phone. The screen was broken and the battery knocked out, but she found all the parts and slid them into her coat pocket.
Then she just stood there. Foolish, half-frozen, and tongue-tied.
“I have a suggestion,” he said. “You’re soaked. There’s a bar down the street. Let’s go in there to warm you up while we call the tow truck and the taxi. I’m Zade, by the way. Zade Ryan.”
She took his hand. The zing that raced up her arm from contact with his warm palm was just like the thrill she’d felt when he touched her shoulder, but a hundred times stronger. “Ah…I’m, ah, Alison,” she lied, on impulse. “Alison Wilson.”
“Alison.” The fake name was a velvety caress coming from his mouth. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Her voice was locked in her throat. A barrier between two warring realities.
True Fact #1: Not smart to go to a skeevy dive bar with a huge guy in black leather who appeared out of nowhere on a dark street corner in a bad neighborhood. In the driving rain. Next to her dead car. Her shattered phone. Even if he had rescued her. Not smart at all.
True Fact #2: He had rescued her.
True Fact #3: It was impossible to look away from him. A diamond stud earring glinted between the thick wet locks of his black hair. The effect was intensely masculine. He wore a metal pendant in the hollow of his collarbone, which caught the light, flashing like a mirror. Raindrops made their slow, loving way along the bold slash of his dark eyebrows, over his cheekbones, his hawk nose, his sensual mouth.
He stood there dripping, pulsing waves of raw sexual energy at her. What in the freaking hell would she do with all of that?
Which brought her around to True Fact #4: She was a repressed, workaholic nerd with no life, and this astonishing man-god seemed to be almost, well, coming on to her. At least she was about ninety-five percent certain that he was. She’d never been great at decoding nonverbal male/female interaction.
Maybe he flirted with every woman he saw. Some men didn’t know any other way to relate to a woman. Maybe this was just him being nice. Could be that the whole thing was just a hopeful fantasy on her part. Maybe she was projecting all this.
Then he smiled down at her. Mmm. Maybe not.
Besides, she’d now inevitably arrived at her ultimate destination, which was True Fact #5. Nobody got out of this world alive.
Tomorrow she had an appointment with Dr. Gregory Fayette. He would give her the final word on whether she’d inherited the gene mutation that would change everything.
If the news was bad, well, rolling around with a red-hot leather-clad bad boy was a bucket-list classic.
One night. No names. No numbers.
Get Right Throu
gh Me here!
Or try My Next Breath here!
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Meet Shannon McKenna
Shannon McKenna is the NYT bestselling author of seventeen action packed, turbocharged romantic thrillers, among which are the stories of the wildly popular McCloud series and her scorching new series, The Obsidian Files—rip-roaring romantic suspense with a sci-fi twist. She loves tough and heroic alpha males, heroines with the brains and guts to match them, villains who challenge them to their utmost, adventure, scorching sensuality, and most of all, the redemptive power of true love. Since she was small she has loved abandoning herself to the magic of a good book, and her fond childhood fantasy was that writing would be just like that, but with the added benefit of being able to take credit for the story at the end. Alas, the alchemy of writing turned out to be messier than she’d ever dreamed. But what the hell, she loves it anyway, and hopes that readers enjoy the results of her alchemical experiments.
She loves to hear from her readers. Contact her at her website, http://shannonmckenna.com, like her on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorShannonMckenna/ or join the newsletter by signing up here: http://shannonmckenna.com/connect.php.
In My Skin (The Obsidian Files Book 3) Page 33
