by Sotia Lazu
The minivan stopped, and the driver hopped down, followed by a cornflower-blue mist. No—not mist. It was glittery.
Whatever.
“Did I get you, buddy?” The man was several inches shorter than Mike and had a foreign accent. His pale-blue eyes were haunting against his tanned skin. “I’m sorry. Didn’t know the thing was there.”
“You wouldn’t, would you?” Mike wanted to be pissed off, but the man’s smile lightened his mood. “Anyway, this isn’t the worst thing to happen to me lately.”
The man nodded and gave a knowing smile. “Girl-trouble, huh? I know about that.”
“Yeah.” This was a weird conversation to be having with a stranger. “She doesn’t see me the way I see her.”
“She will, if you let her.”
“That was vague and useless.”
“I’m good at vague.” The guy laughed. “Anyway, if it’s true love, it’s fated.”
It was an odd thing to say, and Mike was about to point that out, but the man climbed back in the mini and shut his door. The huge-ass sign on it read Willy’s Moving Solutions.
Mike raised his gaze and caught a flash of blonde hair on the minivan’s mirror. Ana.
Willy—or whoever the guy was—probably thought Mike’s was crazy when Mike took off after the woman who rounded the far corner of the restaurant.
“Ana. Ana, wait up,” Mike called out.
The woman stopped, turned, and it was her. Mike waved like an idiot and closed the distance between them. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Was she upset? Had he fucked up? “Ana? Is everything okay?”
“Do I know you?”
His heart shuddered and skipped a beat. He searched deep inside for what he hoped was a charming smile. “I sure hope so. You seemed to, last night.”
She recoiled like he’d slapped her, and then took a tentative step back. “What?”
“This isn’t funny. Did I do something wrong?”
Her second step back tugged at his gut, adding to the burning inside. Was she afraid of him?
He held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I thought we had fun together. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He turned to go but stopped and faced her again. He couldn’t leave it at that. “Please tell me what I did wrong.”
She shook her head. “I have no idea who you are.” She looked around, eyes wild. “You can have my purse. Just don’t come closer.” There was utter lack of recognition in her gaze, as she slipped the strap of her bag off her shoulder.
“No. God, no. I’m not robbing you. We”—how to put this?—“went out a couple times. I thought I made more of an impression. Unless… do you have a twin sister?” It was worth a try.
She shook her head again, looking only marginally less like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Well, okay.” He huffed, to keep from screaming. What was wrong? Was she sick? Dying? Was some horrible disease stealing her away? “I have to go back to work. Can I give you my number? Maybe we can go for coffee some time. Talk about… stuff.”
She chewed on her lip. “When did we go out?”
At least she didn’t tell him to fuck himself. “Last night and the night before. And the one before that.”
“Saturday. Last thing I remember that night was partying. Here.” She tilted her head toward Arbore’s. “I woke up in my bed, alone, and my manager told me I passed out and she carried me there. But I didn’t drink.”
“I remember.”
“You were there?”
Shit. This was going to be hard to explain. “I work at the restaurant. We left together. Pretty late. But you weren’t drunk.”
Her chin trembled. “What did we do?”
Could earth open and swallow him whole, please? “You… We… It was consensual. I swear.”
Ana shook her head. “I didn’t have sex with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, this isn’t denial. I didn’t have sex with you. I woke up fully dressed. Not even a little bit disheveled. And I’d feel something, if we had. An aftermath. I wasn’t hangover. I’d know.”
The idea she was under the influence of some drug their first time together dug a hole in his chest. “We should take you to a hospital. Have a blood test. See if someone slipped you something.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I’ll get in your car. Will you give me candy, too?” Defiance had shoved aside fear, and the knot in Mike’s stomach loosened a fraction.
“It wasn’t only Saturday, Ana. Maybe you’re sleepwalking or something, but you’ve come to me. Three nights in a row.” He reached for her arm without thinking, and she batted his hand off.
“Listen”—she made a wide gesture that encompassed all of him—“guy. Whatever you think happened, didn’t. I was in the recording studio all day Sunday. Till three in the morning. I couldn’t have been with you. Now I’m going to take a long nap and forget all about you. I suggest you do the same, because I have enough crazy in my life already.”
She had enough crazy? “Ana—”
“Stay away, or I’ll call the cops.”
She was off, and he was left wondering what the fuck just happened.
It wasn’t the last time that day.
When Mike took out the trash at the end of the night, Ana waited outside the back door in a flowing pale-gray dress that made her look like an angel. Hope blossomed in his chest, but he extinguished it. “The cops with you?” He’d made it through his long, long shift by convincing himself she meant nothing. He couldn’t allow her to pull him back in.
“What do you mean?” She frowned. “I can’t remember this.”
There they went again. He wouldn’t sit back and let her do her thing this time. “Like you didn’t remember me this afternoon?” he asked.
She looked shocked. “This afternoon? But I didn’t sleep.”
“What does that—”
Slashing an impatient line in the air with her palm, she asked, “Where did you see me?”
“Right here. I chased you down. You said you didn’t know who I was, and to leave you alone.”
Her breath came in short bursts, and he could see the whites of her eyes all around the irises. Panic. He’d caused it.
This time she let him touch her. Grab her by the arms. “What’s wrong with you? Is it your head? Or was someone watching earlier? Are you hiding?” Please be hiding, and not crazy. He pulled her closer. “What are you afraid of? Fucking tell me.”
She met his gaze and held it. “You, Mike. I’m afraid of you and all you’ll do to me.”
He dug his fingers in. He couldn’t help it. Pain and worry and disgust at himself for scaring her poured out of him in a wave. “What I’ll do to you? You’re haunting my days. My work is suffering, because I never know if the last time I saw you is the fucking last time I’ll fucking see you. You were supposed to be a quick lay in a club restroom, and I can’t stop thinking about you.
“I want to taste you. I want to hear you moan. Make you laugh. I want to bury myself inside you and live there. And I don’t even fucking know you. I don’t know your last name or where you live or what you do. All I know is you fuck like a demon and you have my nuts in a vice. And this afternoon I was nobody to you. Don’t tell me I scare you, Ana. You fucking petrify me.”
She grabbed his T-shirt and shoved him back against the door. It felt familiar and yet new. Her lips found his, and she cupped him over his jeans. “Forget you? I’ve tried so hard. For months. I wish I could.”
She was crazy.
And he was lost.
Chapter Eight
Stop thinking. Now. Feel this.
Where did that thought come from?
Mike was kissing her, and she was kissing him, and she didn’t care that nothing was as it should be in this dream.
He was supposed to come outside, give her a kiss that turned her knees into jelly, and take her for a moonlight stroll. Then, of course, there’d be sex. There always was
, when they were in close proximity. What wasn’t supposed to happen—what shouldn’t happen—was for her to be kissing him and crying, and praying she never awoke.
“Ana, please tell me what’s wrong.” Mike pulled away long enough to search her face with his gaze. “Whatever it is, we can fix it.”
They could, in this dream-world. She could believe him again, and he could love her once more. Or convince her he did.
“What you said. All of it… I came out of a hard relationship. Bad.”
He clenched his jaw, his mouth set in a hard line. “If he hit you—”
“No. Nothing like that. We were together for a while, and I always put him first. I gave up my dreams for his, and he slept with someone else. I guess you remind me of him.” She was explaining herself to a figment of her imagination. To the shadow of a memory.
But that memory had his hands buried in her hair, and his warmth spread through her body. “I’m sorry.” He sounded like he had on her voice mail, this morning.
Sixteen years from now.
“Not your fault.” Not yet. If she could stay in the dream, not ever. They’d kiss and fuck and make love and be in love forever. If she didn’t hate drugs, she’d get a prescription for sleeping pills, first thing in the morning.
“Hey. I’m not him. I’d never hurt you.” Mike folded his arms around her, and she buried her nose in the crook of his neck.
It wasn’t a lie yet.
It’d be easy for her to write him off as an asshole, who played her from the start, but he loved her back then. Maybe not on their fourth date, but soon. And for a while. She didn’t know when things fell apart, but it wasn’t when his eyes were hooded and his fingers burned and his heart thudded against her chest.
Stupid, detailed dreams.
She lifted her face and found his lips again. Soft but demanding, they pressed against hers until she opened up to him with a sigh. “I’m not him,” he told her, mid-kiss. “I’m yours.”
She remembered the first time he said the words. And what came next, if she didn’t shut him up. “No more talking. I want you.” The first time around, she wore leggings. Her dream-dress was much more convenient. She bunched it up and raised one leg over his hip.
Mike grasped her thigh and lifted her. She locked her ankles behind his ass, and he turned, to pin her against the alley wall. He smashed his mouth to hers again, anchoring her in place with one hand, as he yanked down her neckline and freed her breasts with the other.
“Do you want to stop?” He didn’t seem to realize he was grinding against her. “Go somewhere else?” He kneaded one breast, and Ana thrust out her chest.
“Here,” she half-said, half-moaned. Reaching between their bodies wasn’t easy, but she managed to pop his fly and wedge her fingers inside his pants.
“Wait. We need a condom.”
“We’re both clean, and I’m on the pill.”
He didn’t ask how she knew about him. He used his thigh to prop her up, and withdrew enough to pull out his cock. He all but tore the skirt of her dress from her hand and slipped a finger inside her. “God, you’re so wet.”
“I said, no more talking.” She closed her fist around him, drove her hips forward, and impaled herself on his shaft. She watched his face, as his eyes slid shut and tension seeped away from his expression. For a moment, he seemed ecstatic.
When he looked at her again, wild desire burned in the depths of his brown eyes. He slammed inside her with the same hunger he had their first time. He didn’t lower his gaze, and it spoke volumes. It promised her the world.
She didn’t want this to be a dream. She wanted to be twenty-six again, and jumping into love—head first and hope intact.
The connection was there. Electrifying. Consuming her at the same time it filled her with life.
Bella snapped awake in her huge-ass bed. The sheets were tangled around her legs, drenched in her sweat, and her pussy throbbed. Her heart ached.
She couldn’t go back to him. Ever. This was supposed to be taking him out of her system. Instead, she was falling for him all over again, and knowing how it was all going to end hurt her more.
She needed to talk to someone, figure out the ball of yarn that was her psyche, and stop the dreams, or she’d never move on.
The statue of Xochipilli mocked her from her nightstand. Her cleaning lady must have brought it to the bedroom yesterday, and Bella hadn’t noticed. She should move it somewhere else, but if she did, it meant she believed Angie. That she believed in magic.
Its eyes were still creepily intense.
“What are you looking at?” She reached to turn it away. It felt warm under her fingers.
* * * *
She hadn’t been out for a drink in a long while, but bars hadn’t changed much in the past couple years, and neither had men. A handful approached her, but although she appreciated the attention, she didn’t spare them a second glance.
Except for the sinfully hot blond watching her from two tables over. His blue eyes were striking against his bronzed skin, and unruly curls crowned his head. His strong nose and square jaw kept his lush lips from looking too soft, and his wide shoulders hinted at a muscular physique she wouldn’t mind seeing more of.
Angie would be proud of her for noticing.
The man smiled and raised his glass, as the waiter placed a strawberry daiquiri in front of Bella.
“From the gentleman over there.” The waiter tilted his head toward Mr. Hot.
She smiled and nodded at the stranger, who stood, drink in hand.
Uh-oh. Wrong move. She didn’t remember how to flirt, and she wasn’t interested in going home with someone. Even a someone as tall and well-built as him. And young. He looked no older than twenty-five. She sucked a long gulp of the pink drink, enjoying the icy slush as much as she did the alcohol kick.
“Mind if I join you?” Even his voice was gorgeous. Deep and smooth, like a caress. Before she could blurt a lie about waiting for someone, he pulled out the chair next to her, sat, and leaned back with an easy smile. “Drinking alone depresses me, but I’m only in San Francisco for a night, and the hotel room was stuffy.”
In town for one night and out for some fun. He might help her blow off some steam and get her mind off Mike, but it had taken her an hour to talk herself into getting out of her sweatpants this evening. She’d need at least two weeks’ time, to decide whether to sleep with him tonight.
“Thank you for the drink, but I’m not looking for company,” she said, avoiding his gaze.
“Even if I promise I’m not here to hit on you, convert you to polytheism, or otherwise bother you? We can sit, finish our drinks with or without talking, and then I’ll be on my way and leave you to whatever is eating you up.”
She sized him up with a frown. “What’s in it for you?”
“I’m a writer. People are where I get my inspiration, and I believe there is a story in you. If you decide to share it, it’ll make my night more pleasant. If not, I’ll still have the pleasure of sharing a drink with a gorgeous woman.”
Come-on lines had improved since her time. Vastly improved. “I’m about twice your age. Besides, I thought you weren’t going to hit on me.”
He chuckled. “I’m not. My heart belongs to another”—his phrasing made her smile; a writer indeed—“and I’m much older than I appear.”
“An old soul?” The smile lingered. This talking-to-new-people thing had merit. He wasn’t looking at her with the pity she saw in the eyes of friends and family.
“You can say that. So will you share your story?”
She shook her head. She didn’t want her past to define her tonight. Her black pencil skirt and pearl-white silk shirt made her feel sexy, and she wanted to enjoy the lie while it lasted, not revert to the betrayed, bitter woman who woke up from dream after dream of her treacherous ex-husband, aching for his touch. “Will you share yours?” she asked.
Mr. Hot swirled the amber liquid in his glass, and she thought she saw cornflower-b
lue sparks in it. They matched his eyes. “I met her several lifetimes ago,” he said. “It was love at first sight, but I was an idiot. Instead of telling her how I felt, I went with a grand gesture that backfired, and then I was petulant about it. She hates my guts now, but I still believe we’re meant to be.”
“That doesn’t sound deluded at all.”
“Right?” His laugh sounded like clinking crystal. “The thing is, she turns me down and then looks for excuses to see me. She says she doesn’t want me, but she steals heated kisses in the candlelight. I try to keep my distance, and she’s everywhere. It’s messed up.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
His eyes looked older than the rest of him for a minute. Ancient and all-knowing.
Alcohol was doing a number on her mind.
“I know all about messed up,” she said.
He raised his glass. “To messed up and second chances and meant to be.”
“I’m sorry, but this is a load of crap.” The female voice sounded so close, Bella jumped in her seat.
A waitress leaned in to leave a bowl of cashew nuts between them. “There is no destiny, and second chances only lead to more heartache.”
Her long chestnut hair only allowed Bella glimpses of her face, but she looked familiar. Bella tried to get a better look, but the waitress swiveled away, saying, “If he’s hurt you, he’ll do so again, unless you don’t let him.”
The woman was rude to interrupt, but her opinion echoed Bella’s. “She does have a point,” Bella said. “Maybe you should let go and start over with someone new.” As should she.
Mr. Hot—she should have asked his name—followed the waitress with his gaze, his jaw set and his lips pressed into a thin line. When he returned his attention to Bella, he was smiling again, but his eyes were filled with sadness. “Inside every cynic beats the broken heart of a romantic,” he said. “It was nice meeting you, Anabella. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an early morning tomorrow.”
Bella was left watching his broad back, as he made his way through the tables, toward the exit. How tipsy was she, that she introduced herself with her full name and didn’t remember doing so?
Eh, perhaps one more drink would help keep the dreams at bay. She really didn’t want to see Mike tonight.
