Anya gasps and jumps, sloshing her coffee. “You gave me a shock!” She shakes her hand out. “That’s a lot of static electricity. Must be dry here.” Good. She clutches the sheet tighter over those magnificent breasts. Even better.
She looks from Francis to Caleb.
“Hi, I’m Caleb.” He leaps forward as if he’s about to pull her into one of his bear hugs. Her tanned arm shoots out as she gives him the hand. “Whoa, boy.” She rests her gaze on Nameless without saying a word. And he says nothing in return. But the air changes as they engage in a battle of wills. Caleb bounces with impatience. “That’s Nameless.”
While continuing to clutch the sheet to her chest, Anya sticks her hand out in Nameless’s direction. “Nice to meet you.”
Nameless opens his mouth to retort. Francis shakes his head.
“Look, there’s obviously something weird going on here, and I have a vague recollection that you’re going to explain it all to me. So, give me fifteen minutes to get showered and dressed, and I’ll meet you.” She waves an elegant hand as she turns to go.
“Not happening, babe,” Caleb says. He’s bouncing again, this time with what looks like glee. “We can’t leave you alone especially this first week. You’re stuck with us.”
Francis steps forward. “We’ll meet in the kitchen. It’s imperative you eat. Bob will stay with you.” Anya opens her mouth to protest but snaps it shut as Francis lifts his hand in a small, subtle gesture. “This is not negotiable. It’s for your protection. We’ll explain when you’re dressed.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “Unless you’d rather one of us stay instead.”
She looks around with what can only be described as a tell-me-this-isn’t-happening look, but it’s more speculative than fearful. Actually, there was nothing fearful about it at all, it turns out, as the set of her mouth settles into an expression of resignation. “Fine. Now, you three get out.” She taps a no-nonsense finger on the top of her tray until the door closes behind the three of them.
She turns to me and glares. “And you, no funny business. I’m not under the influence of whatever the hell drug that was anymore.” She pulls the sheet around her, leaving me bare and exposed as she marches off to the bathroom. I follow behind, ogling the sway of that beautiful ass. Eager to take another look, delighting in the burden of care that just dropped into my lap. My cock nods in agreement as I imagine rubbing soap all over her body.
She flips me the bird. “Don’t even think it.”
My traitorous body reaches for the heat radiating from Job Bob as he follows me into the bathroom. Luckily, my rational mind takes over and brings everything to a screeching halt. I need some space to take stock . . . and remember. Maybe it was all a dream. But I know better. The soft soreness in my pinkish parts makes me want to shout in celebration—the eighteen-month self-imposed siege of Kitty City has been lifted. And I did it with a random stranger. Who reminded me of Bob. Yes, I need space to figure things out. Without this gorgeous hunk of man who just happens to be leaning against the door jamb watching me as if I’m the next tasty morsel he’s set to enjoy. Again.
My best friend Mick would have known exactly how to handle guys like these. I lost her just before Bob. But I like to think she left me some of her snark as a parting gift.
I give him my best side-eye. “Don’t be so thirsty.”
He smiles and holds both hands up, palms outward. The gesture is outwardly submissive, but everything about this man screams the opposite. Joe Bob is an alpha male if I’ve ever seen one. As is the stunningly beautiful Francis.
Joe Bob’s smile widens, and I tingle between my legs. “You first. I’ll shave while you shower.”
Shave? I open my mouth to ask and snap it shut again. Joe Bob continues to look at me with that intensely sensual gaze and a beautifully semi-erect cock. That I want to sink to my knees and suck right now. Dear God! I have to get myself under control. I give him the turn-around gesture with my index finger. That smile turns to a mischievous grin, and his left eyebrow shoots up. I raise mine to match. Then, I clear my throat and twirl my finger again.
He chuckles as he turns around, exposing a butt as gorgeous as my Bob’s. Or almost. Time enough to have that debate in the shower. I drop the sheet and walk into the most luxurious shower I’ve ever seen. Radiant heat warms the floor in the massive stall. Two of the walls are marble. Glass lines the other two. No privacy for me.
I give a quick glance at Joe Bob. He’s busy soaping his face, eyes trained on the mirror in front of him, but I have the distinct impression he’s very aware of my every move. Another quiver shoots through my core as the feel of his cock sliding into me glides into my mind. Get a grip, Tate. I turn my attention to fiddling with the six taps until I find a combination that works the three shower heads. I empty my mind of everything and let the hot water caress my sore muscles. Breaking news: soap smells better in The Twilight Zone. I squirt the sensually aromatic liquid into my hand and smooth it over my breasts. And, of course, flash to Joe Bob’s hand cupping my breast, tonguing my clit. With each thought, a massive quiver shoots through me. Quivers I’ve only had with one man, my Bob. It had been a thing between us, these quivers.
This is a dream. Has to be. And it’s the most entertaining dream I’ve had since Bob died, hell, long before that. So, I might as well go with it, ride the wave. But my adult ego state demands I make sense of my situation.
Okay, what do I know? I remember a sharp pain in my head. I think I had an aneurysm or maybe a stroke. I saw my body on life support in the ICU. That had been so frigging cool—exactly like in the movies. And, I’d been so happy because I’d finally be with my Bob again. That was all I lived for. Or was ready to die for.
I’d giggled about what the angel of death would look like. I’m seriously disturbed. I get that. After watching Meet Joe Black a million times after Bob’s death, I’d hoped my angel of death would look like the character. I turn my head and look at the man brushing his teeth at the sink. Yup, he still looks like Joe Black, and this crazy dream continues.
I sigh and soap up my arms and legs. I have got to figure out what’s going on. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think past the fuzzy fog and fasten on the shards of memory poking through. An ornate throne room. Hera. Chosen. Headmistress. Horrible burning cold. Horrible, horrible burning cold. Bob. Joe. Their faces flickering like something out of The Twilight Zone.
I damn near jump out of my skin when the sponge hits my back. I tense. A large hand drops on my shoulder, stilling me. “Shhh.” I can’t help it. Everything in me responds to his quiet command. “So beautiful. But no tattoos? I thought all millennials had tattoos.”
“I have one right here,” I say, showing him my wrist. I slide my finger over the tattoo that celebrated my love with Bob, branded me to him. It consists of two purple flowers bound by a dark green infinity vine—Bob and Tate and the story of our love.
“I don’t see anything,” says Joe Bob.
Startled, I look again. Now it feels like a living thing. I jump as the vine appears to flick around my bicep. And now I’m hallucinating. *sigh*
“Don’t worry. I can’t see it because of a spell Aphrodite cast. Bardo can be a strange place. Just relax and enjoy your shower.”
I almost moan as his hands follow the sponge down the sides of my chest, fingertips brushing the soft globe of my breast. That’s all it takes for me to waver from the vow of chastity I made mere minutes ago . . . Maybe just one more quickie.
I’m ready to cave when Joe Bob grabs my waist and trades places with me. “They’ll come and get us if we take too long. My turn.” He closes his eyes and tips his gorgeous blond head under the streaming water. Every neuron in my body screams for me to touch, lick, and slide against that magnificent chest. Oh my God, this is just not who I am. It must be part of that ascension cold fever thing I had. Has to be.
As if he read my mind, Joe Bob opens his eyes and winks. “If Caleb sees you like that, he’ll try to jump your bones.”
&n
bsp; That does it. I scurry out of the shower and dry off. And remember Francis. And Caleb. Nameless, not so much, yet there’s something about his dark pouting face that calls to me, something about his compact body that makes me squirm.
Never in my wildest dreams did I fantasize about being attracted to two guys, never mind four. But if I don’t count that, and if I don’t count the sex and magic stuff, this dream isn’t much different than being at home. I sleep. I wake. I am about to eat. Hell, they even have my favorite body lotion. Since I’m completely convinced that one would not need to worry about earthly things like sex and showers in the hereafter, I suspect I’m caught in a coma-induced altered reality. That’s it.
Joe Bob sings away as he soaps down, seemingly oblivious to watching me at the moment. Hmm. Not one to miss an opportunity, I wrap a towel around my middle and peek around the door to make sure I’m alone. Whew. No one in sight. Light escapes from behind a door that proves to be a huge walk-in closet. My eyes almost bug out of my head, and I run my hands along the rows of bold business suits, blouses, pants of all kinds, drapey cashmere sweaters . . . and every other item of clothing a woman could want. I check a few labels . . . Yup, all in my size. I give a nod to the orchestrator of this dream. At home, I was trying to be a good millennial and practice sustainable fashion, in other words, reducing my eco-footprint by buying local, ethically produced clothing and less of it. If I ordered online, I looked for green-label brands. But this closet . . . if I’m half dead, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this guilty pleasure.
I put my mind back on task. Get dressed. Find out what the hell is going on. And, apparently, make my first impression as headmistress. That much I remember, at least. I reach for one of the tailored pantsuits lining the left wall.
A pale hand holding several pieces of clothing shoots in front of me. “Wear these.”
I jump back and stare up into Francis’s strangely iridescent eyes. He stands there looking at me as if he worships me. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You scared the shit out of me.”
He steps and sweeps into another courtly bow, an extended arm still holding the clothing. “I beg your pardon. Forgive me for startling you.” He straightens, eyes fastened on mine as if he’s probing my mind for some hidden truth. He stretches his arm, the command clear. When I reach my hands out in return, he drops the clothes into them and retracts his hand quickly. Is he being careful to avoid another static shock like at breakfast? That’s sweet. I take the clothes. And wait. He gives me a penetrating look. I return the same. He may have seen me naked when I was under the influence, but I’m calling the shots now. He gives me the nonplussed expression followed by a smile that I saw this morning, and disappears. Simply vanishes. More magic.
I shut the door and check the closet, which is more like a small room, for more unwanted visitors. I’m alone but know with certainty that Francis or Joe Bob, or both, await me on the other side of the door. I put my ear to the door and listen but hear nothing through the thick carved wood.
I turn my attention to the clothes in my hand: black silk pants, a teal knit top, and knickers. Yes, knickers! I drop the pants and top on a small chair in front of a dressing table and check out this throwback from an early 1900s fashion museum. The fine lawn garment has long loose pant legs and a drawstring waist . . . and a slit in the crotch. Not in this lifetime, boys.
Yup. This is definitely a coma dream.
Shaking my head, I riffle through the drawers and shelves looking for a pair of cotton panties. No such luck. All the undergarments were designed well before my birth. Well before my grandmother’s birth. Time for shopping later. Shopping is a necessity in any dream of mine.
A pair of flats that fit perfectly complete the outfit. It’s no surprise that the clothes fit perfectly. I model in front of the full-length mirror and give a small nod of satisfaction at the reflection that stares back at me. Normally, I’d spend three minutes grousing about my softening body and make another unkept promise to hit the gym. Now, all I can see is what these four men see: the soft curves of a thirty-five-year-old woman who’s just been well fucked. Despite the lack of makeup, my eyes sparkle and my lips are plush with the aftermath of Joe Bob’s punishing kisses.
I open the door to Francis, hot as fuck in a dark blue tailored suit. Joe Bob stands beside him, looking equally gorgeous in black linen pants and a long-sleeved sweater, sleeves pushed up on his forearms. His wet blond hair is slicked back. And the look in his eye tells me he has more in mind for me. Oh boy. I square my shoulders. Francis offers his crooked arm, his hand held against his chest. I wrap my hand through his elbow. Joe Bob, not to be outdone, steps to my other side and captures my other arm. Oh boys. But I have to admit part of me loves the attention.
“Let’s get this show on the road.”
In the earthly realm, it would be just after noon, but in our universe, it’s breakfast. None of us are morning people. Francis and I settle Anya at the round table outfitted with five chairs in the alcove that makes up part of a well-equipped kitchen.
A pot of tea steeps beside a cup made of fine china. Anya sniffs the tea before pouring a cup, adding honey and lemon. We sit on either side of her, ignoring Nameless, who sits plucking his bass, seemingly oblivious to the rest of us. Caleb bustles around the stove, shoveling eggs and bacon onto plates before sliding a dish in front of each of us. A large pot of coffee with cream and sugar follows. After grabbing a stack of toast and his own plate, he takes the fifth seat at the table. Anya looks at each of us as if she doesn’t want to break protocol. We all stare back, even Nameless. As much as he’d like to deny it, I can tell he feels the pull toward her.
Fighting my own pull to touch her, I keep my hands tightly clasped. Then, in a carefully nonchalant voice, I announce, “Before we go further, you should all know we have this Tate’s permission to call her Anya. It’ll make things a lot less confusing.”
“Just because you’re all fucked up about your precious Tate doesn’t mean the rest of us have to jump through your hoops,” Nameless says.
“I’m fine with it.” Anya frowns at Nameless. And, we’re off to a great start.
“Works for me,” Caleb says. “It’s pretty.” He beams at Anya, who smiles back.
“Then, Anya it is,” Francis says.
Forty-five seconds tick by before Anya clears her throat.
“Okay, who goes first?” she asks.
“You go.” Caleb grins at her before inhaling a huge mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“Food first. Then, we talk.” Francis’s voice is quiet but firm, brooking no argument. He turns his formidable gaze on Anya. When Francis focused his glittering and commanding persona on someone, even the strongest among us cringe. Not Anya; she grins and says, “So, does that make you the boss here?”
I wait for the temperature to drop as Francis’s temper ignites. Instead, he switches on his charisma. He breaks into a wide, uncharacteristic smile and points to Anya’s plate. Anya lifts her hands in a mock curtsy gesture and bobs her head. “Yes, sir.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
Nameless plants his forearms on the table and opens his mouth as if to argue. He has one of his stare-downs with Francis. Finally, he purses his lips before tipping his chair forward to sling his guitar on the back. Then, he examines his poached eggs, no doubt deciding whether they meet his stringent health requirements.
Watching him, Francis plucks a blackberry between two fingers and pops it in his mouth.
Not missing a thing, Anya’s eyebrow’s knit briefly. She looks at each of us for a few more seconds, then picks up her knife and fork. She circles them in the air. “Let’s eat.” Her voice cuts through the tension, and Nameless and I join the others. Caleb, by this time, has made his way through a mountain of eggs and bacon as he refuels his engine. He grins at Anya between bites.
Anya tucks into her food with gusto. That pleases me. Between bites, she continues to examine each of the other guys carefully. I get surreptitious glances and th
e strongest feeling that she’d like to touch me. Same page, so I keep my cutlery safely clenched in my hands. When she’s eaten her fill, Anya shoves back her chair, picks up her plate, and starts to rise. Caleb and I jump up, but of course, Francis, with his gift of speed, beats us to it. “We’ll take care of that for you. We’re here to serve you.” The plate disappears, and Francis is back in his seat before I’ve slid Anya’s back in place.
Anya gives us a that-was-weird look and folds her hands on the table. “Okay, guys, what’s the scoop?” She eyes Francis expectantly. He gives one of his courtly head nods and crosses one perfectly pressed leg over the other.
“How much do you remember?” Francis asks.
Anya sucks that full bottom lip between her teeth and leans forward. “It’s weird, really. I keep trying to break through the fog in my brain. I remembered a pain in my head, so I thought I’d had a stroke or something, but now I remember getting shot at my school.” She swallows hard and threads her hand into her hair and rests it on her scalp. “I think. Hell, I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. I remember looking at my body in the ICU hooked up to life support. Then I was flat on my ass in front of that goddess-like woman, who said she was Hera. And that burning cold. And Hera saying something about me being chosen as headmistress of a school for a month. She said something about you, I think.” She looks shyly at me again. “But I don’t remember for sure.” She looks back at Francis. “So, am I in some kind of alternate universe or just a really weird coma dream?”
“It’s not a dream. You’re in Bardo, and the gods have chosen you as headmistress of our academy,” Francis replies.
“Yeah, we get to give you your orientation,” Caleb says. “They won’t tell us, but you’re the one. I just know it.”
“Caleb.” Francis’s voice is pitched low with warning.
“Come on. I’m just saying.” Caleb crosses his arms.
“What one?” Anya asks.
Francis gives a heavy sigh. “Caleb believes you’re his destined mate. Seems he’s imprinted on you.”
Tate's Tale Page 3
