Nobody (Men of the White Sandy) (Volume 3)

by Sarah M. Anderson

  She leaned back against him, letting him hold her weight up. Then she rolled her head toward where his was hovering over—not touching—her shoulder. “You know Jack’s been watching the clinic and the center, right?”

  He swallowed. Jack normally worked for Jacob Plenty Holes, guarding his horses. They had a sort of unspoken gentlemen’s agreement not to mess with each other. The fact that the sheriff had seen fit to bring Jack in did not bode well. That, more than anything, was why he’d bolted for the trees. The sheriff wasn’t turning any cheek, it seemed. Nobody wouldn’t put it past him to have gotten ahold of a chopper. “Jamie told me.”

  “You know he’s not going to arrest you, right? I asked. He said he wasn’t. You can come back to work. No more sneaking around in the dark.”

  He snorted. “Not gonna risk jail on his word. It’d be a big coup for him to catch me.” Just thinking about the narrow cell made him break out in a sweat.

  Jail. He’d told her everything about prison. Well, not everything. He didn’t see fit to tell her about how the good behavior part of his parole actually didn’t start until about the second year, when everyone else had learned to leave him alone rather than tangle with him. He would’ve been out sooner, except for that first year.

  “You don’t like being inside, do you?”

  “No, Ma’am.” Being inside was a trap. Didn’t matter if it were a closet or a cell.

  “What do you do in the winter?”

  “Don’t mind the cold.”

  “Really?” She wasn’t buying that answer, that much was clear. “What about when it snows? Madeline said you guys get blizzards out here. Real ones.”

  “That’s why I borrowed the trailer.”

  “Stole. You stole it.”

  “No one was using it. Sat there for years.”

  She made a clucking sound of disapproval, but instead of scolding him some more she let go of the horse’s mane and put her hands on his arms. The ones crisscrossed around her waist. “How do you do that thing where no one sees you?”

  “Don’t know.” That was the truth.

  “Have you always been able to do it?”

  He shook his head before he realized she couldn’t see him. “Couldn’t do it before.”

  “Before what? I swear, you are the most infuriating man to have a conversation with.” But the way she said it was less disapproving, like her sister, and more something that might have been amused. He hoped.

  “Before the closet.”

  “Oh.”

  “But when I was in there—I had all these hallucinations. Dreams. Visions, Albert said. My vision quest.”

  “O … kay …” He grinned at her flabbergasted tone. She shouldn’t be surprised that things had suddenly gotten all mystical again. Hell, he did have a way of becoming a shadow. That wasn’t normal. “What were these dreams?”

  He didn’t want to tell her. He’d never told anyone but Albert about the dreams—and that was only because he was weak and confused and so scared. He’d never even told Rebel about it, although he’d hazard a guess that the man had figured something close enough to the truth.

  Besides, talking wasn’t something he was good at. On the other hand, he needed to give her a reason. She’d said so herself, right before they’d been buzzed by that copter. And, given how she was leaning back against him, touching him—he wanted to kiss her again. But he didn’t want another kiss with her to blow up in his face, either. Better to get this over with.

  He took a deep breath and dug the memory out. The scene was hazy around the edges now, dulled with time. But seventeen years ago, it’d been so real. So real. “A coyote came out of the dark. As he got close to me, he changed into a man. Sat with me while I was in there. Talked to me in Lakota. I don’t speak it. Don’t know what he said. Then he got up and changed back into a coyote and left. That’s when Albert came and got me.”

  She was quiet for a moment, which was something. At least she wasn’t calling him nuts or anything. Not yet. “Is that … normal? Or were you hallucinating werewolves? No—wait, you said coyote. Werecoyotes? Is that even a thing?”

  “Albert, he said the spirit world had opened up to me. Said my ancestor had come to me and I would be like them—sometimes good, sometimes bad. Sometimes a man and sometimes … not.”

  A trickster, Albert had said. Mica, the coyote, an old figure from an old religion that Nobody didn’t believe in, had been a shape-changer who’d played tricks on the old Lakota. Sometimes he’d helped them, sometimes he’d tricked them. Sometimes, those tricks left a man dead.

  But he didn’t tell her that. He wasn’t sure she believed him anyway. Hell, he didn’t believe all that crap about Mica the trickster who would play games with Iktomi, the spider-man, an age-old story of one-upmanship. Those stories were just fairy tales. Not real.

  Except …

  “You’re a what—a shapeshifter? You change into a coyote?”

  “No, Ma’am. Never had four legs.” He sighed. All this talking was wearing him down. “Just two.”

  “So how do you do it?”

  He couldn’t tell her. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could show her. But he’d try. Only for her.

  He let go of her waist and held his arms out straight in front of her. She didn’t pull her hands back, but let them rest on his forearms. They were under a canopy of trees that blocked the sunlight from reaching the forest floor. Plenty of shadows. He let himself feel the pull of the darkness. The same darkness that had brought the shapeshifter to his side.

  The hairs on his arms stood up and his scalp tingled, but at no point did he become invisible or immaterial. Her hands didn’t slide through him. He did not grow hair or paws and claws or anything. Not that he’d expected to, but he knew she was watching for it.

  Instead, she jolted forward, pulling her body away from his. “What. The. Hell,” she said in an awestruck voice. “Did you just … shock me?”

  He shrugged as he let his arms drop back around her waist. He hoped she wouldn’t shove him away. Everyone else in this world thought he was a freak, with the possible exception of Rebel. He didn’t want her to think that way about him.

  It’d been a damn long time since he’d cared what anyone thought of him.

  “Okay, so let me get this straight.” She leaned back, casually placing her hand back on top of his. She didn’t get hysterical and demand to get off this horse or go home right now. “You had a vision of a shapeshifter while you were wounded and starving as a teenager, right?”

  Three days without food or water—especially the water—probably counted as starving. “Yeah.”

  “And since that time, you can … generate a small electrical field? On command?”

  “Guess so.”

  “And everyone has trouble seeing you when you do that.”

  “Except you.” He squeezed her tighter before he wondered if maybe she wouldn’t like it.

  She hugged his arms tighter around her waist. “Sometimes good and sometimes bad, huh?”

  “Yeah. Working on the good part.”

  She appeared to think this part over. “Do you still go to bars?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “No.” He was too busy these days, what with a regular job at night and Jamie and keeping an eye on things in general. “I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “But it finds you anyway.”

  He looked at the woman in his arms. This close up, he could see the faint freckles that dotted her cheeks and nose. Her ears were pierced, but she didn’t have any earrings in right now. And her hair—wild red curls tickled against his cheek.

  Was she trouble? Maybe. She’d already messed up his careful little world in ways that he hadn’t even thought possible. Before Melinda Mitchell, Nobody had trusted Rebel and Jamie and that was it. Now he was riding out to his place with a white woman who talked too much and was absolutely not afraid of him.

  “I work at it. Haven’t had a drink since that day.” Suddenly his mouth was dry. That had been
the last time a woman had kissed him—touched him. He didn’t count Dr. Mitchell. She touched him, but needles were almost always involved. There was nothing sexual about.

  But when Melinda touched him … well, sexual wasn’t the right word. But there was something sensual about the way her creamy-smooth skin was pressed against his, her heavy breasts resting on top of his arms, her body was reclined against his. The way she’d kissed him last night. “Haven’t … haven’t done a lot of things since that day.”

  He felt the tension ripple through her as she looked over her shoulder at him. She stared at him, her mouth wide open. “You … haven’t?”

  “No.” His voice had dropped down to a bare whisper. He wasn’t even sure if he’d spoken out loud.

  One of her hands reached up and he tensed. But she didn’t push him away or smack him. Instead, her fingers skimmed along his hair, wrapping around his head and pulling him down toward her. “Until last night.” Her breath mixed with his, sweetening the air around him.

  “Until last night,” he agreed, letting her pull his mouth to her lips.

  The kiss was different this time. Maybe that was because he wasn’t at war with himself anymore. He’d told her the worst of it and she hadn’t damned him to hell. Instead she was still in his arms, tracing his lips with her tongue. Yeah, he thought as he opened his mouth for her and let his tongue meet hers.

  Her teeth tugged on his lower lip—not quite the same nip she’d given him last night, but more than enough to take the sensual nature of the kiss to the next level. The half-erection he’d been trying to keep under control went full-on in a heart beat.

  “Was that better?” she murmured, her mouth still against his.

  Better wasn’t the word for it. “Yeah.”

  “And I can do it again?”

  He clutched her tighter, pressing her ass against his throbbing dick. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She kissed him again, letting her hand slide down to the back of his neck.

  He couldn’t help himself. Not when it came to her. One of his hands moved up her ribs, over the thin tank top she was wearing, until he was cupping her breast.

  God, what a breast. Her flesh filled his hand, firm and heavy and he wanted to get off this damn horse and lay her down and bury himself in her body and hold her for as long as he could.

  “Mmmm,” she hummed against him. “Gentle.” But it wasn’t a criticism.

  “Okay.” He needed to keep his head together and not think with his dick. But he couldn’t seem to kiss her and touch her at the same time. Something about being out of practice, maybe.

  So he focused on touching her. He kissed her forehead before he settled his chin back on her shoulder so he could watch what he did to her. He let his fingertips trail up the underside of her breast until they reached her nipple—fully pointed through her bra. He gave it a tug. A gentle tug.

  “Oh,” she moaned, her head still turned to the side. “Yes.”

  Yes. Best word ever.

  He kept stroking her, trying to memorize the map of her skin, but there was clothing in the way. So he shifted to stick his hand up under her shirt.

  The bra felt thin—no padding or anything—and lacy. Lace. God help him. Going slow was getting harder by the minute. The second.

  “I know I ask this a lot,” she said in a breathless way, “but how much longer until we get to camp?”

  He forced himself to look away from where his skin touched hers—and only because there was the promise of something good in her voice, something that involved little to no clothing in the way. It took a moment for him to recognize where he was, but then he saw the deer path at the top of the hill. “Not far.”

  “You said that last time, too.” Then—Jesus—she wiggled, her bottom grinding against his dick with a pressure that made him lightheaded.

  He pressed his feet into Star’s side—one forward, one back—and turned her toward the path. Once she was on it, she knew where she was going and he could turn his attention back to the woman who was demanding his attention and so much more.

  “I think there’s a condom in the backpack,” she said as he debated the merits of unhooking her bra or just pushing it down.

  “That’s … good.” That was something he hadn’t given much thought to in a really long time. He’d have to get some more of those things if that was how she wanted this to go.

  Because any way she wanted it to go was how he wanted it to go.

  Finally, he decided to slip his hand underneath her bra. The metal part dug into his hand, but it didn’t hurt. Not compared to the heat of his palm cupping her skin, his fingers rolling her nipple back and forth—her moans of pleasure.

  “I like that,” she got out in tiny gasps.

  Yeah, he liked it, too. It was almost too much and not enough at the same time. His other hand started to edge down, over the zipper of her jeans, until he was cupping her.

  “Oh, Mr. Bodine,” she moaned as he pressed against her until he found the place that made her shiver and grab hold of his arms.

  He growled, the name feeling oddly foreign on him—but good, too. Like he was doing this right.

  Because he wanted to do this right. Then maybe he’d get to do it again. Back when he’d been a young, stupid punk, he’d taken the comfort a girl would offer him. But that sex had been flavored with whiskey, drunken fumbles in the back of cars or against a wall. Nothing either of them would remember. Just a way to forget.

  He wanted to remember this. Every single detail. The pressure of her fingertips digging into the back of his neck as she rode his hand. The little noises she made in the back of her throat as he tugged at her nipple. The sweetness of her breath on his lips. He wanted to keep it all locked in his mind until the day he died.

  He was doing this to her. She was letting him. He didn’t have to move his hands much. The rocking motion of the horse’s pace did a lot of the work for him. He focused on direction. Did she like it better when he went from side to side or in small circles?

  She gasped, her back arching against his chest. Circles. Definitely.

  “Yeah,” she moaned, a breathy sound that brushed over his ears like a kiss. “Oh, Mr. Bodine!”

  He liked that name, but when he’d fantasized about a moment like this—and fantasize he had—he’d heard her say something else.

  But he didn’t want to tell her that right now. He wanted to focus on the feeling of her filling his palm—her breathing and gasping and moaning, all because of him. Because she trusted him.

  There were things he wanted to do to her, for her—bite her on the shoulder, grab her—but he didn’t want to frighten her. So he focused on the small, gentle things he could safely do. Teasing her nipple, rubbing her clit. Giving without taking. Giving her a reason to trust him.

  “Yeah—oh—yeah,” she groaned, her back going rigid against him, her legs pressing back as she ground her whole weight down onto his hand. “Oh, yeah.”

  Then she crumpled against him as the tension bled out of her body. “Oh,” she said in a satisfied whisper as she sagged back. “Oh, Mr. Bodine.”

  “Okay?” God, he hoped he hadn’t hurt her, done something she didn’t like.

  “No,” she said in a dreamy voice.

  Crap. He’d gone too far. Why couldn’t he have just kept his hands to himself? Why did she make him want to put himself out there? Why—

  “So much better than okay,” she said in that same voice as she pulled his head down to where her lips were red and warm and waiting for his kiss. “So much better.”

  Yeah, he thought again. He’d done right by her and that was what mattered—more than him being a freak or a felon or a menace to society, he’d taken care of her. It made him feel damn proud of himself, even if he didn’t quite understand why that was. Especially given the way his dick was throbbing in frustration.

  Then she nipped at his lower lip, dragging her teeth over his skin with just the right amount of pressure. He groaned into her as his dick d
id a whole hell of a lot more than throb. He would not take a thing she didn’t offer—but if she offered—

  Yeah, if she offered, it’d be wrong to refuse her, right? Downright rude. And ungentlemanly.

  She broke the kiss to say, “I want you. Now.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” He forced himself to pull his hands away from her welcoming body and grab onto Star’s mane. “Hold on.”

  He hadn’t meant for her to hold onto him—he’d thought she’d grab the horse’s mane—but she held onto his arms as he urged the horse forward.

  They took off at a steady canter, Star easily following the path back to where his camp was hidden in the trees. He needed to cool the animal down after this—a couple of hard runs with twice the weight she normally carried—but he needed to heat Melinda up more.

  He was breathing hard, but he couldn’t tell if that was from the run or from the woman. Didn’t matter.

  She mattered.

  That was all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  One moment, she was flying. The next, the horse was flying. Both made her lightheaded.

  Jesus, she couldn’t believe how Nobody had reduced her to a quivering mess with just a few light touches. It was like … foreplay. Real foreplay.

  Back when she was dating metrosexuals with sexuality issues, foreplay had been very little fore, even less play. At least, that’s how it seemed to her. There’d be some kissing, some oral—almost always her on the giving end—and then sex. Like sex was the only part that mattered and everything else was just delaying the good stuff. Like suffering through crappy previews for movies you didn’t want to see before the show you’d paid money to watch.

  But in Nobody’s hands?

  He’d touched her so hesitantly at first, like he was afraid he was going to break her with the pads of his fingertips. Well, he had—but in the very best way possible.

  There was something about someone else giving you an orgasm instead of giving it to yourself—she could never replicate Nobody’s strong arms surrounding her, holding her up. Or his warm breath cascading over her shoulders. Or the way his erection had pressed into her with such obvious need. No vibrator could ever do that for her.