Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  Pushing my empty plate aside, I give Smythe my best thank-you grin. “Breakfast was great. You’re welcome over here any morning you want. Provided Blake isn’t around.”

  One of his brows does a meet and greet with his hairline. “Tell me about him.”

  “What’s to tell? We’re friends.” Plus some.

  “You care for him.” A statement. Not a question.

  “Yeah. We’ve known each other since college.”

  His gaze shifts to the wall behind me, grows distant before dropping to his laptop screen. “Must be nice.”

  “Come on, now. You can’t tell me you don’t have a friend.”

  “Of course I have friends.” His gaze meets mine, offense bristling the edges.

  “Well, I didn’t mean you didn’t. You just sounded jealous there for a second. Wait. You are jealous.” I point a finger at him. “You miss having a friend with benefits, dontcha?”

  It’s almost comical watching emotions play across his face. Embarrassment. Surprise. Shock.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Magic. So, did you have one and lose her, or never have one and want her?” Asking if it’s a him instead of a her never enters my mind. Tension-charged touches and hormonally induced electrical zingers took away that query. He swings the same way as my bedroom door.

  Cha-ching.

  As if that’s going to happen. Work rule number one: never get involved with your boss. Or mentor.

  Smythe blinks like he lost a lash in his eye. Red tints his cheeks, fades as he swallows and looks at the screen. He pauses long enough for me to think he’s not going to answer.

  Which of course makes me wonder what he’s hiding.

  When he speaks, the words lump together like cold oatmeal. “Had one.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?” Old flame? Broken romance? This is going to be juicy.

  “She died.”

  Or not so juicy. Which is the problem with digging up gossip. Sometimes the oopsy factor flies back in your face.

  “I’m so sorry.” I reach across the table, touch his hand before I think better of it. Emotions assail me, bitter, dark, a damp hiding place.

  And then he blocks me out.

  But flips his hand over so his fingers curl around my palm.

  The silence in the room thickens, spreads, dampens the ticking of the clock, the hum of the fridge. The scent of rich soil fills the air as the taste of damp dirt clogs my mouth, pours down my throat. I cough, gagging on his emotions, the bitterness of his sorrow.

  With a squeeze, he releases my hand, taking away the sensation of choking. A couple of breaths later and the feeling of being buried alive dissipates.

  Looks like I’m not the only one in the room with secrets.

  Or battling to keep my emotions out of the friends-with-benefits relationship.

  “So.” Smythe clears his throat. “Training. Put your plate away and let’s get started.”

  Okaaay. One share session coming to an end.

  “Let me brush my teeth and I’ll be right back.” Toothpaste with a chaser of coffee might sound disgusting, but I’ve learned to like it.

  Besides, it gives me a chance to check my texts without Smythe noticing what I’m doing.

  Grabbing my plate, I stick it in the dishwasher and mosey back to the bedroom. The cell phone lays on the bedside table and a quick peek shows Blake has not texted me. Or called. Or stopped by.

  It shouldn’t bother me.

  So why does it?

  I stare at the phone in my hand. A couple of weeks ago I wouldn’t have called. After all, that’s what being a friend with benefits meant. No strings attached. Dating whoever we please.

  Not bothering each other with texts born of insecurity.

  But something changed in the last few days. Something drastic. We clicked.

  For more than just a night.

  Therefore sending him a where the hell are you text seems a logical next step in our new relationship.

  Rationalize, rationalize, rationalize.

  Multi-tasking is the work of a moment. Toothbrush in one hand. Phone in the other. Swype rocks, best invention ever.

  Where R U? Missed U last night. I hit SEND.

  Set the phone on the back of the toilet. Take a peek at the screen.

  Nothing.

  I spit and rinse. Still nothing.

  Maybe he’s in a meeting.

  Or doing other lawyer-ly things. Yeah. That’s it. Meeting time.

  He’s not ignoring me. Nope. Not at all.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. Light brown hair, shit-brown eyes. Smooth skin. No beauty, but not fugly either.

  But god, I’m such a mess. Why the fuck can I not deal with things like normal people? Why do my inner switches require certain substances or action items to shut off? Why do I touch people and get readings off them?

  I’m beginning to sound like a petulant two-year-old.

  Stuffing the toothbrush back in its holder, I grab the phone. Do another check.

  No text.

  Definitely a meeting. And as a no doubt impatient Smythe sits in my kitchen, checking the phone every five seconds is not an option.

  One last glance in the mirror.

  Still me. Gin the fuckup.

  Who has a wicked cool bracelet. I can’t be that much of a fuckup for a bracelet like this one to choose me. Right?

  Right. On occasion, self-talk becomes a great motivator.

  At least to get my ass out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Where training will hopefully take my mind off all these things.

  Smythe leans against the counter, watching me walk into the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His black T-shirt, jeans and shitkickers don’t so much scream fashion statement as badass. Unlike earlier, his face projects a business-like persona, no excess emotion to be found.

  Unless one counts that gleam in his eye.

  Approval? Or expectation of kicking my ass on the training field?

  “What’s on the agenda, boss?” I pick up my mug from the table, pushing past Smythe to the coffeemaker. Hot steam brushes my nose as I sip.

  “Defense tactics.” He reaches for my mug, but I twist, evade his grasp.

  “Hey, now. A girl needs her caffeine.”

  “It’s time for training.” He holds out his hand, palm up.

  As if I’m going to give him my mug. Something is wrong with the man. He clearly has no respect for a filled coffee mug.

  “Smythe, Smythe, Smythe.” I punctuate each word with a head shake. “What do you have against coffee?” The liquid sears my throat as I swallow several gulps, knowing I fight a losing battle and determined to get in as much get-up-and-go juice as possible.

  “You slept in late—”

  “Because you kept me up half the night.” Along with other things best left unsaid.

  “And now you want to waste time drinking an addictive liquid.”

  “It’s better than other things I could be drinking.” I swallow a couple more sips, letting the dark wonder work its alert-giving way through my veins. Hello world.

  “Are you aware of your addictive tendencies?”

  “Lots of people drink coffee in the morning. Or tea. Ask around.”

  “It’s not lots of people I’m responsible for. Just you.” He steps closer, the heat from his body caressing my skin in a warm embrace. His blue eyes catch my gaze, reel me into his control, under his spell. One hand wraps around my mug.

  “Release it.” His words sink under my skin, a command I’m all too eager to follow.

  Damn it. I really need to learn how to fend off his spell.

  As soon as he turns to put the mug on the counter, the spell breaks, freeing me into bitch-land.

  “What the hell?” I try to take a step toward my mug, but he grasps my upper arm and turns me toward the back door. His emotionless touch after the earlier sharing session tears into my awareness.

  “Training. Now.”

  Train this buddy
. I jerk my arm, simultaneously trying to stomp on his foot. My sneaker hits steel-toed leather with the force of a car running into a brick wall, while my arm gyrations do nothing but crack my shoulder.

  “Ouch! What the hell? Let me have my coffee already!”

  Ignoring me, he swings open the door with his free hand and drags me onto the back porch. For half a second I fear he’ll pitch my complaining ass down the three steps onto the grass, but instead he pulls me against his hard chest, lifts and walks down the steps. My feet swing against his shins, my chest flush against the warmth of his upper abs and pecs, my eyes even with his ear.

  I’m being carried by Smythe.

  And my damn traitorous hormones spark to life like a Fourth of July firecracker.

  Only to fizzle when he drops me to my feet in the middle of the backyard.

  “No fair. And I still want my coffee.” I give my best glare, the one used to strike the fear of God into non-compliant patients, and turn toward the house.

  Only to find myself staring at the underside of the oak tree’s canopy while trying to draw in a breath. Blue sky peeks through gaps in the leaves as I suck down air into shocked-still lungs. Did I slip on a stone or did Mr. You-Don’t-Need-A-Caffeine-Hit just sweep my feet out from under me?

  Judging from that twinkle in his beady blue eyes, I vote for the latter.

  The son of a bitch enjoyed taking me down and watching me lay there like an overturned crab. Humph, he wants to see a crab, I’ll show him crabby.

  Taking a deep breath, I fake a wheeze and watch as the twinkle disappears into brow-knitted concern.

  He bends, one hand reaching toward my face. “Gi—”

  Before he gets my name out, I twist toward him, hands locking around the back of his leather-clad ankles. A quick yank coupled with a roll and Smythe’s arms windmill in classic oh-shit fashion. I drop my grip, continuing my roll until I land on all fours.

  As soon as I push to my feet, I break into a run, heading for the backdoor. Coffee here I co—

  A six foot five hunk of muscle appears in my path, blocking my escape route. I feint right, dodge left, but he sticks to me like a used car salesman on the scent of a sale.

  I take off running to the side, heading for the side gate, when a heavy weight hits me from behind, knocking me face first to the ground. Hands grab my shoulder and hip, forcing me onto my back. I yank fistfuls of grass and dirt so by the time Smythe has me turned and sits on my thighs his face is in my line of fire.

  The double-handed pitch lands on the side of his face, tiny pieces of grass and dirt stick to his skin with sweat. He lets loose with a curse and grabs both my wrists in one hand, his other wiping across his face in an effort to dislodge excess grass and dirt.

  A rush of fear-spiked adrenaline dances through my system and I twist, trying to escape his hold.

  No such luck.

  Will he hit me? He can’t be too happy with dirt in his eyes.

  Most of my brain trips along memories of Smythe rescuing me. Of how his temper snaps in a second, but never his fists. At least not in my direction. My brain might negate my question, but my body refuses to get onboard the not going to happen train and shoots out another dose of flee-adrenaline.

  In the time it takes for those thoughts to run through my mind, Smythe finishes wiping dirt out of his eyes. I tense, then force myself to go limp.

  But instead of rage, his eyes leak pride.

  Relaxation edges its way out of hiding.

  “Nice job. You caught me unaware with the ankle grab.”

  “It seemed appropriate.” I swallow, continuing to watch for signs he’s faking his not-angry stance.

  None appear. Not even when he releases his grip on my wrists and stands, holding out a hand to help me up.

  My gaze holds his—watching for the almost imperceptible twitch of facial muscles coupled with tensing of biceps that telegraph a change in intention—while he hauls me to my feet. His eyes narrow, a probing intent less painful but equally as scary as what my instinctive reflex fears.

  Get a grip, Gin. He’s not going to hurt you. You might not know him well enough to know his favorite food, but you know damn well he won’t hurt you.

  He drops my hand, gestures toward the backdoor. “Go on. You’ve deserved it.”

  I no longer crave the coffee, but it’s the principle of the matter. Sticking a smile on my face, I walk past him, not hurrying for I am not scared.

  Really. I’m not.

  But I don’t relax until I’m out of arm’s reach, until I make it up the steps to the tiny back porch and I don’t release the breath until the mug is in my hands.

  It’s no longer hot.

  I don’t care.

  Smythe shoves open the door, his presence filling the kitchen like smoke from a fire. After he closes the door, he takes a couple of steps to the table and slides into a chair. His eyes focus on me as I stand by the sink, nursing the coffee mug, trying to keep the liquid from sloshing over the side.

  How am I supposed to fight big, bad minions if I can’t even hold it together during my first training session with my mentor?

  “Wanna tell me what’s wrong or am I supposed to continue tip-toeing around the proverbial sleeping giant?” His fingers drum an inpatient rhythm against his jeans, a dull throbbing against my nerves.

  “Is it that evident?”

  One raised brow answers.

  Okaaaay. Guess that’s a yes.

  I sigh. Holding his gaze—which means I’m really not scared of Smythe, right?—my mug and I walk to the table and sit across from him.

  This ingrained behavior of mine is so silly. I should be over it. I try and usually succeed in not regressing to learned behaviors. But being around Smythe erases all my hard work.

  Well, dammit, I’m going to have to work harder at stomping out those reactions.

  His fingers stop their annoying drum. “Who was it? Father or mother?”

  I choke down the lump of liquid. “What makes you say that?”

  “Stop it, Gin. You think I don’t have eyes?”

  I drop my gaze, focusing on the grains of wood running lengthwise on the table. Whispered words leave my lips like a catharsis. “Father. He was a mean drunk. Mom was just drunk all the time. Neglectful but not harmful.” Unless one counted children having to scramble to find food in the trash bins at school harmful. Some might think it built character.

  “What happened to him?”

  Meeting his gaze, I cock a brow. “Couldn’t find it on the computer?”

  He stares at me, a silent reproach.

  I shrug, telling him the same thing T and I told the police all those years ago. “He came home one night, beat the shit out of Mom, and walked out the door. Never saw him again.”

  “No idea where he went?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think he’ll return one day?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “He took his stuff. Clothes, deodorant, razor. A man’s not coming back when he takes off like that.”

  “And your mom?”

  Pain bursts against my sternum, regret, remorse. “She drank herself to death a couple of years later. Came home from college and she was dead on the couch. Had been that way for days.” The stench of death invades my nose, a memory so strong it still overwhelms to this day. I bring the mug up to my nose, inhale the rich scent of coffee, my own personal smelling salts.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well. A body can only take so much before it falls apart.” Something I learned the hard way. “What about your mom?”

  White lines form around his mouth. “She’s in a nursing home. Had a stroke.”

  “I’m so sorry. When did that happen?”

  “When I was a teen.”

  “Seriously? She must’ve been awfully young to have a stroke.”

  He swallows, recites his words in that flat way people do to hide a deep-seated agony. “Passed out after a binge. Had a stroke. They r
evived her, but couldn’t reverse the damage. She has to have round the clock care.”

  “That must be hard on you.”

  “Harder on Dad. But yeah.”

  “Could Eloise not help?”

  “She wasn’t available in time. We couldn’t get in touch with her until several days later. By then it was too late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. Anyway.” And he changes the topic faster than a menopausal woman gets a hot flash. “You did pretty good earlier with the element of surprise. But while a fistful of grass might work on a human, it won’t have much effect on a minion. Are you finished with that coffee?”

  He nods toward the mug, and I set it on the table. Drinking it no longer seems as important.

  “Good. Let’s go again with some defense moves.”

  Chapter 20

  Hours later, after learning jujitsu moves and a few karate kicks, Smythe calls a halt to the beat up Gin session. Thank goodness. No more lying on the dirt/grass mixture otherwise known as my backyard gasping for air while waiting for his next move. Which usually resulted in a return to my bruised and dirty prone position staring at the underside of leaves.

  No more of that today. Now I have the joy of getting dressed for work.

  After a quick brush on my shorts and legs to knock off any remaining dirt and grass, I lead the way into the kitchen. Smythe follows, stopping by the table as I open the pantry.

  “I’ll be back after my shower. Help yourself to whatever.”

  “Thanks.”

  Not bothering to watch what he does, I grab an apple, the half-empty jar of peanut butter and a stack of saltines and carry the lot back into my bedroom. One shower later and I stand in front of the mirror, eating and dressing in a disorganized dance I’ve perfected since taking the job at Blue Forest.

  My face bears none of the hits taken today. That privilege goes to my wrists, where the beginnings of bruises redden the skin. Nothing a scrub jacket won’t hide, but I dab cover-up over the marks to be on the safe side.

  Answering are you in an abusive relationship questions are not my idea of a good time. I’m usually the one asking the questions, not the one giving the reply.

  I’m pretty certain I’ll have bruising on my hips and butt from being thrown onto the ground, but those are easily hidden. It’s my face I’m worried about.