The phone made a soft thud. Jason heard muted voices, then his mom’s raised in alarm.
“Jason?”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in Cancun? Where is Shelley? Is one of you hurt?”
Jason knew she had her hand up, waving it around as if pushing smoke away from her face. She did it whenever she got upset.
“Mom, calm down. Nobody’s hurt. It’s just—”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“Well—”
“What did you do?”
Jason tapped his fingers on the coffee table. “Nothing, okay? Shelley and I split up.”
“Did you say what I think you said?”
“Ye—”
“This isn’t funny, Jason.”
He knew she’d moved her waving hand to her hip. Pretty soon she’d exhale through pursed lips and shake her head.
“It’s not a joke. Really, it isn’t. We split up. Things have been rough—”
“What did you do?”
The same question again. Great. Of course his mom assumed he’d done something. He knew she would. He didn’t do anything. He did everything. Everything Shelley wanted and then some, but in the end, none of it mattered. She’d wanted something more, and he wasn’t convinced it had anything to do with Nicole at all.
Shelley grew up in an area of town known for its unkempt yards, alcoholism and teenage mothers. A place where dental hygiene was a foreign word and education a necessary evil until the legal dropout age. Her mother had worked odd jobs when sober, and not at all when she fell into the bottle. They’d relied on the support of her endless string of boyfriends, each one a bigger loser than the last. Shelley’s own dad split when she and her older brother were still in diapers, and her mother had three more kids after that, all with different fathers.
When Shelley turned eighteen, she left home, cut her family out of her life and reinvented herself from top to tail. And she never stopped. She piled on one pretension after another until she ended up nothing more than a caricature of everything she wanted to be. The happiness she thought she’d find always hovered one step away and it turned her bitter, spiteful and cruel. Oddly enough, despite her distrust of mothers in general, she loved Jason’s, but she treated his dad as if he were an afterthought.
“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t do anything,” he said.
“Is Shelley there? Let me talk to her.”
“No, she isn’t here, she went to Mexico.”
“Without you?”
“Yes, without me.”
“When she gets back, you need to talk to her. You need to work it out.”
“She left me,” Jason said. “There’s nothing to work out. It’s over.”
His mom exhaled heavily into the phone. He could almost hear her head shake.
“Jason, this doesn’t make sense. She loves you.”
No, she doesn’t. And I don’t love her, either. Not real love anyway.
“Mom—”
“I’ll talk to her when she gets back. It has to be a mistake. Maybe she just needs a little time away. Your brother and Eve split up for a few weeks, and they got back together. Their marriage is stronger than ever.”
“This isn’t like that. This is for good.” And Ryan’s marriage wasn’t stronger than ever; he and Eve still had problems, big ones. His mother just refused to see them.
“You can’t say that, Jason.”
“Yes, I can. It really is over. It’s not a bad thing, okay? Things have been horrible.”
His mom fell silent, but it didn’t last long. “Come for dinner Sunday night. We want to see you. I’ll make lasagna.”
And she would try to make him see the error of his ways. It was pointless to argue with her, though.
“Okay, I’ll come over on Sunday.”
“I love you, Jason, and everything will be fine. I know it will.”
He had a new tattoo and a date on Saturday night with Mitch; things couldn’t get much better.
13
On Saturday at seven o’clock, Jason pulled up in front of Mitch’s house and knew his sweaty palms had nothing to do with the warm weather. She opened her front door before he had the chance to knock and for a long moment he couldn’t speak, just stare. She wore a simple black dress, which covered more than it revealed, but his voice ran away and hid in awe.
“Hi,” she said finally, her mouth curved up into a smile.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you. You said to dress nice, I hope this is okay.”
So much better than okay.
“It’s perfect.”
She smiled when he opened the car door for her. “So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?”
“And ruin the surprise? Nope.”
“So how do I know if I’m overdressed?”
“You’re not. Not at all.”
“Can you give me at least a hint?”
“I hope you’re hungry.”
She gave his arm a gentle poke. “That’s not a hint at all.”
“What can I say? It’s all I got.”
“Tease.”
When they pulled up to the restaurant on East Franklin Street, a place well known for its steak, pine-nut cake, and impeccable service, her eyebrows raised and she twisted her hands together.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wouldn’t joke about a place like this,” Jason said.
Once inside, they sat on a cushioned bench to wait for their table. Dark red glass lamps hung down from the low ceiling, casting a warm glow. Beneath the voices of the wait staff and the patrons, a hint of music could be heard. Something soft with mandolins and guitars.
Mitch sat close enough to him so the length of her thigh pressed against his. Even with her hair pulled back from her face, she still smelled like coconut. Jason fought the urge to press his lips to the little sideways comma scar above her eyebrow. A couple walked in, dressed in formal dinner wear, and she leaned even closer. “I think I might be underdressed. I should’ve worn my pearls.”
“Yeah, my Rolex is in the shop.”
She turned her face toward his shoulder and giggled. “The limo, too?”
“Didn’t I mention it before? I sold it to pay for dinner.”
“The food better be good, then.”
“You’ve never eaten here before?”
“No. Have you?”
“A couple times, but only on special occasions.” Like his fifth anniversary.
“Does this count as a special occasion?”
Jason smiled and touched her hand. “Yes, I think it does.”
“So what were you humming in the car?”
“What do you mean?”
“On the way here, you were humming something. I couldn’t place the song, though.”
“I don’t know. Just nothing, I guess,” Jason said. He didn’t remember humming at all and yet an unfamiliar tune tickled the back of his mind. Something odd, something old, then the maître d' beckoned them to follow him, and the song vanished.
Halfway through dinner, the tattoo started to itch; he rubbed the bandage through his shirt, but it didn’t help. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to keep a bandage on it, but he couldn't remember Sailor telling him not to, and without it, the ointment left oily traces on his shirts.
Mitch saw the gesture and smiled. “It itches?”
“Just a little.”
“I hate that part. It’s worse than getting it done. Just ignore it. It’ll stop. I made the mistake of scratching with my first one and had to get part of it touched up later.”
He took a drink of sangria, trying to ignore the itch, but it pleaded for his attention, annoying and persistent.
“So, you said you work in IT, but what do you do?” Mitch asked.
“I handle all the mobile devices for the company. Cell phones, PDAs, wireless cards, that sort of stuff.”
She smiled. “Sounds interesting.”
&
nbsp; “It can be, especially when the CEO is out of town and drops his PDA into a puddle, but most of the time, it’s just mindless work.” His hand twitched toward the bandage, but he grabbed his fork instead.
“Like mine sometimes. Every time a Hollywood star gets a new, groundbreaking hairstyle, all my customers come in, wanting to look exactly like her. It gets old.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Right. Until the next star does something like”—Mitch lowered her voice to a whisper—“add highlights. Then the whole process starts again.”
Jason tried to laugh, but the itch, like many-legged insects crawling back and forth across his skin, made it hard. The waiter stopped by their table and filled his empty glass. As soon as he stepped away, Jason drank half the glass and tried to ignore his arm, half expecting to hear the buzz of a hundred insects as they took flight.
The restaurant noise wrapped around them like a glove. The music, hushed conversations, muted laughter and silverware tapping against plates. Mitch reached across the table to touch his hand, and the jolt it sent through him pulled him away from the itch. She traced his knuckles with the tip of one finger, then drew circles in the skin above. One lock of her hair had come loose, and it hung against the pale of her cheek in an S-shaped wave. Then the itch took hold again; he jerked his hand back, and Mitch pulled hers away fast.
“Sorry,” Jason said. “It’s just my arm.”
“It’s okay. Is it like a mosquito bite? That’s what mine felt like.”
A mosquito bite? Maybe if the bug had a proboscis as large as D.C.’s Washington monument.
“Something like that,” he said and took a bite of steak. It tasted like nothing in his mouth; his brain would only process the itch. The poison ivy bush he’d fallen into on his tenth birthday had nothing on this. His skin begged him to scratch the bugs away, to send them scattering out into the restaurant in search of fresh prey.
Mitch said something in reply, but her words were nothing more than background noise. The itch was the main instrument in the orchestra pit, and it played big. Without the bandage covering the tattoo, the temptation would be too great to scratch and scratch and scratch until his skin bled.
Jason lifted his fork and ran his fingers over the tines. Yes, they would do the trick nicely. Never mind the gouges left in his skin. Never mind the damage to the tattoo. He could take the fork into the bathroom, strip off the bandage and rake the tines over his skin. A hundred times, a thousand. The pull to make the trip made his heart race. How would he explain it to Mitch?
He could pretend to drop it on the floor and slide it in his pocket when he reached down. Tuck it away, then excuse himself for a few minutes. He could bandage it back up when he was done and keep his shirt clean. He could—
Stop it. It’s just an itch.
Ignore it, it will stop, Mitch had said. Mitch’s mouth moved, and he tried to focus on the conversation, but he was only half there. The other half? Under the bandage, screaming for the itch to stop. It was like the orchestra from hell, and every single damn insect in the state of Maryland got an invitation to perform.
Five minutes in the bathroom. All it would take. It would hurt like a bitch, but then he wouldn’t have to worry about the itch anymore. And the four hundred dollars and Sailor’s artwork? Not important. Not important at all. Three minutes, if he had to. Just a few quick swipes with the fork. Just enough to make—
It stopped. One minute his arm sang out in a symphony of poison ivy and insects; the next, the musicians gave their final bow. He looked up in surprise.
“Did it stop?”
“Yes,” Jason said. The insects had marched on without an encore. They hadn’t even left their sheet music behind.
“I told you it would.”
He tapped the fork on the edge of his plate, then impaled another piece of steak.
14
Jason’s arm stayed quiet on the ride back to Mitch’s house. He helped her out of the car, and she kept her hand in his as they walked to her door.
“I think that was the best meal I’ve ever eaten,” she said. “And the company wasn’t so bad, either.”
Before he could respond, she leaned close and pressed her lips against his. Heat spread through his body as he brought his hands up around her. She wound her fingers in his hair, and when she broke the kiss, she didn’t step away. Jason kept one hand on the small of her back, and the soft ends of her hair brushed the edge of his fingers. He reached out with his other hand, tracing the pad of his thumb across the scar above her eyebrow. She shivered.
“Do you want to come in?” she said.
The same words she’d used Thursday night, but this time the question held serious intent. He shouldn’t, but when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t say no.
Chapter Three
Into the Wind
1
Jason woke up in an unfamiliar bed, with his body curled around a now very familiar body. Mitch slept, her breathing soft and even, with one hand tucked under her cheek, like a child. He kissed the back of her head and climbed out of the bed, careful not to wake her up. Should he leave? Would she want him to stay? Last night, after falling back on the bed, exhausted, she asked him to stay the night. Now, with the harsh glare of sun shining in the windows, doubt crept in.
Déjà vu hit when he walked from the bedroom and saw the clothes scattered in the hallway and on the stairs. He found one of his shirt buttons halfway down the staircase. The memory of her hands tugging at his belt sent a shiver down his spine. He didn’t want to leave yet; it would feel like sneaking out. They’d had coffee with dessert, so he knew she liked it. He’d make some and wake her up with a cup. Sugar, no cream. That’s what she’d told the waiter.
When he reached the bottom landing and turned to walk into the living room, he stopped, frozen in place. The griffin, huge and menacing, stared at him with its beak raised. Sunlight danced across its feathers and turned them gold. The eyes bored into his with grim intelligence.
So real.
He took two steps closer. The talons were weathered, as if it had been on a long journey. The muscles of the back legs, the lion legs, rippled through its fur, and the claws extended just enough to reveal curved tips as sharp as the talons. Jason knew it was a male—an Alpha male. The chest puffed forward, haughty and superior. It had every right to be smug.
“I told you I loved griffins,” Mitch whispered behind him.
“Jesus.” Jason whirled around.
Mitch folded herself into his arms, laughing against his chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Did you…?”
“No, my brother painted it one year and gave it to me for Christmas.”
“It’s beautiful.”
The griffin looked ready to jump out of the canvas, which was at least three feet wide and almost as tall. This close, he could see the brush strokes and the way the colors blended into each other. It did look a lot like his tattoo, even down to the vivid green eyes.
Mitch pulled away from him and took his hand. “Come on, let’s make coffee. I’m grumpy when I’m not caffeinated.”
She kept her hand in his as they walked through her dining room. He stopped in front of a bookshelf, one of many that lined the walls, and ran his fingers over the spines. Shakespeare, science fiction, poetry, books about Henry VIII, horror novels…
“You like to read horror?”
Mitch nodded. “They’re my favorite. I love reading them when I’m curled up on the sofa with only one light on. I especially love it when I get so scared I’m afraid to go upstairs without turning on all the lights.”
“I haven’t read a good one in a while. My ex thinks they’re all crap. She used to throw them out when I wasn’t looking.”
“Ouch, that’s low. If someone tried to throw away my books, they’d have a serious fight on their hands. So this ex of yours, how does she feel about tattoos?”
She pushed him into the bright sunshine yellow kitchen, down into a chair, and ra
n her fingers through his hair. Her tank top was thin enough to show off the rose-pink of her nipples, and her boxer shorts—not baggy men’s boxer shorts, but short and clingy—were sexier than the most expensive silk and lace, in his opinion, but he looked away. A black-and-white cat clock with a hanging tail and moving eyes ticked away the seconds with tiny, audible clicks.
“She thinks they’re trash, but she thinks most everything is, unless it’s something she likes.”
Mitch moved away from him and pulled coffee from one of the cabinets. As she reached, the edge of the boxer shorts lifted a little; the curve it revealed left Jason tongue-tied. The memory of her body under his filled his mind with vivid images, almost too much to take.
“How much of an ex is she?”
Jason ran his fingers along the edge of the kitchen table, unable to meet her eyes. “A new one.”
“Should I be scared? Is she going to come here, kicking and screaming and demanding that I give you back?”
Jason shook his head. “No, it was a long time coming. I guess neither of us wanted to admit it. I should be glad she decided to leave.” Because he didn’t think he would have, no matter how miserable it made him. The damn vise grips hurt like hell, but they were a comfortable—and familiar—hurt.
She turned around. “She left you?”
“Yes, for her best friend.”
“Oh. Oh.” Mitch giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said between her fingers.
“Don’t be. I’m glad,” he said, then he, too, laughed. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. Mr. Good Guy Jason, who always did as he was told, got dumped for his wife's best friend. Such a bad movie cliché. They'd been friends for years and he hadn't suspected a thing. Soon enough, both he and Mitch had tears in their eyes. She kept one hand on the counter and clutched her stomach with the other. He almost fell out of the chair.
When the laughter subsided, she finished making the coffee and brought two mugs over to the table. “Do you like scary movies?”
“Sometimes. If they’re good movies, not just hack, slash and gore.”
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