To Make the Magic Last

by Cheryl Pierson

  To Make the Magic Last

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  To Make the Magic Last

  Cheryl Pierson

  Smashwords Edition

  To Make the Magic Last

  Presented by Publishing by Rebecca J. Vickery

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-4580-0316-4

  Copyright © 2011 by Cheryl Pierson

  Cover Art Copyright © 2013 by Karen Michelle Nutt

  Revised Edition

  Edited and Produced by Rebecca J. Vickery

  Design Consultation by Laura Shinn

  Smashwords Licensing Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this ebook without purchasing it and it was not purchased for your use only,

  then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  To Make the Magic Last is a work of fiction. Though some actual

  towns, cities, and locations may be mentioned, they are used in a fictitious manner and the events and occurrences were invented in the mind and imagination of the author. Similarities of characters or names used within to any person, past, present, or future, are coincidental.

  To Make the Magic Last

  Tornado sirens blast as Police officer Steve Cooper heads out for work one morning. In the stairwell, a different situation reveals itself—a gang war in his apartment building. Shots ring out and Steve catches a bullet. Seriously injured, he pushes the beautiful woman who has come through the door behind him back toward safety.

  Christy Reed, his new neighbor, pulls him into her apartment and attempts to stop the bleeding. Recently arrived from Mississippi, Christy has no idea what's going on, but she knows enough to be terrified.

  They take refuge in the bathroom as the sound of a freight train roars over the building. Through the pain and fear, Steve and Christy are drawn to each other as magic sparks between them.

  When the building is devastated by the storm and the gunmen appear once more, will Steve and Christy have what it takes to help each other survive? Can they make the magic last?

  Chapter One

  The storm sirens began to scream just as Steve Cooper headed for the apartment stairwell. Early—too early for his shift, but he hadn't slept well last night—again. He might as well be driving his beat as lying in bed staring at the ceiling. He sighed and reached for the door handle. The sirens heralded the start to a killer day, with tornadoes approaching. He'd probably find himself working a double, if things went downhill with the weather—which was always a good bet in Oklahoma at this time of the year.

  He glanced down at his uniform—the last clean one in his closet. It didn't worry him. Nothing worried him anymore. The worst that could happen already had. His two-year marriage had finally flown out the window, ten months past.

  Although Lacey had been the one to leave him, Steve felt more regret over the failure of the commitment than the loss of someone he should have cared more about. His lack of grief over losing his blonde bubble-headed wife only proved to him how much he'd grown in the last couple of years. He'd thought he'd been in love—but it had only taken a few short months for both of them to realize they'd made a mistake.

  Lacey landed on her feet. She'd moved on and moved in with their next-door neighbor. Two months ago, she and her new conquest had found another apartment in a complex across town.

  Steve supposed her guilt had finally overcome her, since she'd clearly been fooling around while they'd been married. It had finally become too much for her to face Steve when they happened to meet in the hallway.

  Steve's lips turned upward in a sardonic grin. He'd been had, or so Lacey thought, but he was damn glad to be out of the marriage. She'd never liked his dangerous job, his rowdy friends, or his Cherokee heritage. At least now, he could relax and be himself. And maybe…maybe a bit of magic or good luck might be his, just around the next corner.

  So, why couldn't he sleep?

  Steve pulled the metal door open, stepping into the dimly lit stairwell. The shout from below made him lunge back in deep-seated self-preservation, preventing the bullet from killing him instantly. The roar of the semi-automatic sounded deafening in the enclosed space, and the second shot ripped through the freshly ironed, navy blue shirt and the cotton undershirt beneath before tearing through the muscles of his shoulder.

  The force of the impact flung him back against the doorway. Automatically, he reached for his service revolver, the pain in his left shoulder so intense it obliterated every other thought. The door at his back opened and he turned quickly, managing to push the young woman who'd come through it back into the hallway as the shots began again.

  She screamed in surprise, her dark eyes wide, staring up into his face. Recognition lit her gaze.

  His neighbor. The new girl on the block.

  "C'mon!" Steve grabbed her arm, pulling her away from the stairwell. Her apartment was just next to his—the one Lacey and her lover had vacated. The new tenant had only moved in three weeks ago. Steve met her once, when they happened to be getting home at the same time. Gorgeous now, just as she had been then.

  Christy, her name was. As if it mattered now. If they didn't get somewhere safe, names would only be of interest to those people reading their obituaries. She fumbled with her keys, finally unlocking her door, then he felt her pulling him inside. He glanced back at the stairwell door, his gun in his hand, but the metal door remained shut. Christy Reed pulled him into her apartment, locking the door behind them swiftly. Her fingers shook badly, he noticed, but she seemed determined to do what had to be done in spite of her fear.

  Quickly, she turned to face him, her features softening as she registered the damage. "You're bleeding!"

  Chapter Two

  Steve stood, leaning against the wall, the pain riveting him in place. For a moment, he couldn't respond, and Christy began to unbutton his shirt, opening it completely.

  He leaned his head back, bracing against the only solid thing in his world, closing his eyes, and breathing deep. The pain was still sharp, cutting into his shoulder with fierce intensity, but at least he could think again.

  Christy took his hand. "Come lie down on the couch."

  "It's white." And I'm very, very bloody. He opened his eyes and looked down into her worried features. Beautiful. He shook his head. Besotted, he thought, irritated. That could lead to 'sloppy'. And then, 'dead'. But he couldn't remember the last time anyone had worried over him.

  "It doesn't matter," she was saying. "You need to lie down."

  He managed a slight grin, hoping to reassure her. But he didn't move.

  Christy gave him a pleading look. "I mean it, Steve."

  He admired her determination.

  She sighed and started forward as she grasped his hand. "We've got to call 9-1-1."

  "I am 9-1-1," Steve muttered, gasping as he moved to lie down on the couch. Must've gone out clean on the other side from the feel of it. So, why was his arm numb? He tried to make a fist and couldn't. Couldn't feel his fingers…

  Christy arched an eyebrow in silent dispute. She turned away from him and hurried down the hallway, reappearing moments later with an armload of clean towels.

  White again.

  Steve closed his eyes. "Is everythi
ng white here? I'm ruining everything you own…"

  "Shhh. Don't worry about that. We've got to get this bleeding stopped." Her voice was soft, reassuring. She wasn't from Oklahoma, by her accent. Somewhere more southern…

  He nodded, feeling instant pressure atop the wound, gentle at first, then deepening until he thought he would cry out with the pain. But he didn't, and as swiftly as the agony had sunk into him it began to recede little by little. He groaned, cutting it off as soon as he realized he'd made any noise. He didn't want to worry her anymore than she already was.

  Christy's palm was instantly against his cheek, in silent comfort. When he opened his eyes again, she knelt beside him, her expression resolved, yet worried.

  "Get the phone, Christy. Tell them there were shots fired. Officer…down."

  The tornado sirens still blasted outside, and the rain had begun, pelting against the windows so hard it seemed they might shatter. Christy glanced toward the windows then back at Steve.

  "The sirens—what's going on?"

  Steve sighed. "Where'd you—where'd you move here from?"

  "Biloxi," she said tentatively. "Does it show?"

  "A little. You got no excuses, lady," he teased. "That's hurricane territory. This is just a—a tornado we're dealing with."

  She gave him a sweet smile, and he felt his heart melt inside his chest. Are you taken? He barely stopped the question from slipping out. She was probably a college student, he guessed, maybe twenty-two or –three. Four or five years younger than him. Her auburn hair was cut short, curling around her face, her brown eyes wide and somber. And trusting. Trusting him to get them out of this mess. For the first time in months, he felt alive again.

  Chapter Three

  Suddenly, the wind shrieked into a dull roar, like the sound of a passing freight train. They should be taking shelter in the stairwell, he thought. But it was full of gunmen. And no need, now, to call emergency services. No one could respond in this. The tornado was here.

  Christy's white teeth grazed her bottom lip. "I don't know what to do."

  Steve blinked back the darkness. He was passing out, and that, he couldn't allow. He sat up too quickly, putting his head down between his legs, panting and sweating from the increased pain of the sudden movement. Protectiveness surged through him.

  "The bathroom," he whispered. "Safer…." He stood up, taking it slow, Christy's hands steadying him as they made their way down the hallway to the tiny bathroom.

  The phone. It crossed his disjointed thoughts, making him stop and lean on the doorjamb of the bathroom to look at Christy, but couldn't focus. He had to sit down. He held onto the wall and took a step toward the bathtub. He carefully stepped over the edge of the tub, bracing his back at the opposite end from the faucet. He began to slide, his knees unable to support him any longer.

  "Christy…" His voice came out quiet, only a hoarse half-whisper. He closed his eyes, trying to keep himself conscious. "Chris—"

  "I'm here," she reassured him. She had gone back for the towels and a small radio. She set those things close to the tub on the palm-tree bath mat, then disappeared again. When she came back she was carrying a comforter and a first-aid kit.

  "Get…the phone…" he muttered.

  She pulled her cell phone from her jeans pocket. "I did, but I don't get very good reception inside the building."

  "You have a—a land line?" He pushed the blackness away again.

  "Yes. The lines are down, I think, but I brought it anyway." She laid the phones close to him. "I thought you guys carried radios." She was trying to tease, but she sounded too damn scared to carry the joke.

  "It's in the stairwell," Steve answered. "Dropped it when…I got shot." His mouth was so dry…

  "What about your cell?"

  He closed his eyes. Yeah, he'd forgotten something all right. And it was probably still laying on his nightstand.

  "I left it…my…apartment…"

  "It doesn't matter," she comforted gently. "We have mine."

  He smiled at the way she tried to make him feel better about not being perfect. Cops weren't supposed to forget… Supposed to do everything right. He'd been in a rush, and for what? That one bit of carelessness might be what got them killed, in the end. Stupid of him.

  Christy turned on the radio, then shook some ibuprofen into her hand. "I've got some medicine for you."

  He looked at her through barely slitted eyes, opening his mouth for her as she dropped three of the tablets in and held out a bottle of water, her hand gentle at the back of his head.

  Capping the water when he'd swallowed enough, she set it aside. She reached to pick up her cell, dialing 9-1-1. After trying three times, she snapped the lid closed.

  As the lights flickered, dimmed, then went completely, they were engulfed in near-darkness. Steve tried to move to the side of the small tub, but his six-foot-two frame took up nearly every square inch of space.

  "What's wrong?" Christy huddled beside him on the cheap tile floor watching him.

  He was suddenly aware that her teeth were chattering. "Just trying to make room… Come here."

  "I—I don't want to hurt you." She reached for his right hand, and his fingers closed around hers.

  It felt good. Her hand was firm in his—as if she drew strength from his touch, and there was some kind of magic in that. The beginning of something good in all of this.

  "You won't."

  The wind roared outside, deafening even in the small bathroom. They were practically yelling to be heard above the storm.

  Hesitantly, Christy crawled over the side of the tub, careful of where she placed her hands. Finally, his good arm came around her in a strong embrace, pulling her down flush with his body until she lay on top of him. She tried to hold herself away from his shoulder, but he drew her down, tucking her head beneath his chin, and she reached to pull the comforter around them.

  Steve could feel her shaking as she lay down. She was more afraid of the storm than the gunmen, it seemed. But as soon as he thought it, she asked, "Do you think they were after you, or just anyone who came down the stairwell?"

  Her breath wafted warm against his neck, the comforter enveloping them in a cocoon of false security. The wind roared outside, deafening in the small bathroom. Then, a high-pitched sound of rending metal, the heavy clunking noise of tearing wood, and Steve knew the roof of the building was gone.

  Christy gasped, pressing closer into his chest. He patted her awkwardly, his arm at an odd angle. After a moment, he answered her question. "Neither. They were after each other." They'd been yelling at each other in Spanish, he remembered. He had just happened to walk into the middle of rival Latino gang warfare, ongoing in this neighborhood, day and night. What was a girl like Christy doing in this area? "Right now, this storm is more of a threat."

  She had stopped shaking despite the fact the storm continued to blow with wild strength outside. She seemed to have forgotten it, lying so close to him. But he knew they were still in terrible danger, and he might not get the chance to tell her what he needed to say if he waited.

  A long moment of silence hung between them, the only sound the worsening storm. "Christy." He touched her arm again, and she glanced up. "Thanks for trying to...help me."

  "I didn't do anything."

  Her voice sounded muffled, he thought. Like she was crying, and trying to hide it. "Sure you did." The comforter was soft. The bleeding was stopped. And, Steve decided, he loved the feel of Christy Reed's body on his, warm and curvy, and more comforting than that damn piece of down-filled material ever could be.

  Her fingers slowly curled into the folds of his once-starched uniform, then settled against the soft cotton tee shirt.

  "You're doing it...even now, sweetheart."

  Slowly, she lifted her head and met his eyes in the dark haven they'd made.

  "Steve—" she broke off, raking her teeth over her bottom lip quickly, nervously.

  He smiled at that habit of hers, thinking how he'd lik
e to kiss her; how he wished he knew her better; how it would seem to her if he even...

  Hell with it. He pulled her to him slowly, her lips coming across his, warm and sweet and soft as the brush of butterfly wings. Uncertainly, she tasted his mouth, and he opened for her, letting her explore him. Her right hand moved to his jawline, her thumb skimming his cheekbone before her fingers found their way to thread through his hair.

  "What's happening to us?" she murmured, drawing back slowly to look at him.

  Her voice was quiet and low, and Steve realized they must be in the eye of the storm. There was no sound but the rain now, and far away in the distance, the wail of a siren somewhere.

  "Magic," he whispered, believing it himself. He'd never felt so protective of any other woman—even Lacey. Christy needed him, but she was a giver, too.

  She shook her head and lay back down against his chest. "Magic always fades away."

  Not this time, he wanted to say. But he was too exhausted to form the words. Instead, his hand drifted to her short curls, tangling gently there, finding comfort in the clean softness. She'd been hurt before, he knew; he could hear it in her voice. He wanted to know who…and why. But he couldn't ask—not right now. He couldn't keep himself awake. "Christy, I'm...so tired."

  There was a long pause. He knew she was afraid, not only of the storm and the predators, but also of what was happening between them—the magic they'd made so suddenly, the fire that had kindled so unexpectedly between them. He wouldn't let it disappear, he thought fiercely. She was something special—he could feel that already. Something worth holding onto.

  "I know, darling," she whispered finally. "Just rest, okay? I'll be here when you wake up."

  "Promise?"

  Chapter Four

  Christy smiled, but Steve's eyes were closed. She skimmed his lips with hers in a feather light kiss. "Yes. I promise." No one had ever asked her to promise anything; not even when she'd wanted that so much…that promise of love, and trust.