I towel off and smother myself in a thick terry bathrobe before moving to one of the two sinks equipped with every toiletry I could ask for. Joe Bob follows me and wraps a towel around his waist. We brush our teeth in silence. He finishes before I do and leans back against the counter, watching me. “How are you feeling?” Gods, I want to drink that voice. It gives me the buzz of the mead we had, but it promises to only make me feel good.
“That mead was made by the gods. Very potent.” Joe Bob’s full-tilt grin is back.
I’m horrified. “Please don’t tell me you read minds.” I’m praying now.
“No, I don’t.” Joe Bob laughs and tips my chin. “Although, in your case, I would rarely have to. Your face tells me everything I need to know.” His head comes a little closer. Now, I can smell his minty breath, feel it tickle my mouth. I hold my breath, letting my mind do the please-do-please-don’t dance, hoping he’ll take the choice away, kicking myself for having the thought in the first place.
“Here, let me help.” He gently seals his lips over my treacherous mouth. It’s kissing him back and barely resisting the urge to suck his face off. I groan mentally. All of this is just plain crazy. But I sure as hell feel better. As I move to deepen the kiss, Joe Bob steps back, twirls me around, and slaps my ass. “Time to get dressed, you vixen. Your entourage awaits.”
I slip into the adjoining room, my body awash in sexy shivers. Francis’s kiss on my hand filled me with electric buzzing, and Joe Bob’s kisses produce tremors that give my pinkish parts their own heartbeat. Throb, throb, throb. These men. I sigh.
I study the clothes lining the walls, taking a moment to bask in just how uber cool it is to have a designer wardrobe made for me. If Joe Bob were my only consideration, I’d go for full-out sexy, or at least my version of it. Because, like my Bob, he looks at me as if he adores every inch of my body. As if I’m a goddess made just for him. Wear sexy. You go, girl. Okay, that sounds more like the voice of my girlfriend, Mick, but I’ll pretend it’s Bob for now, telling me to strut my stuff for the guys.
I pull down two suits, both navy and exquisitely cut. One with a skirt and one with pants. I eye the skirt . . . Skirts are sexier than pants, right? That’s sure as hell what Mick would tell me. Then, the doubt weasels come flooding in. My legs are too skinny. My ass is too big. My boobs are too small. And all that before I get near the subject of air hitting my crotch through the crotchless bloomers or whatever they’re called.
Then Mick verbally bitch slaps me: Fine, if you don’t want to strut your stuff, I’ll do it for you. And, she’d have done just that, sashaying ahead of me swinging those perfect hips. Hell, she had perfect everything. I should have hated her, right? Instead, I’d admired her confidence. If I’m honest, it helped that we shared a secret that gave me an edge of my own to feel good about. Mick was married to a guy devoted to vanilla sex. Slam-bam, where’s the remote? Whereas Bob and I fucked like creative rabbits. Mick’s husky voice rings in my ear: You don’t know how lucky you are. Gods, I miss her.
What the hell is wrong with me? Every time I turn around, the memory of another dead person comes crashing down on me. First Bob, then Leah, and now Mick. I miss her so much. Flashes of a Seattle BDSM conference she’d dragged me to bring a rush of heat. What is it with this place? I wait for the obligatory sadness to follow. Instead, a bubble of happiness bursts free—she might be here in Bardo.
It hits me with absolute certainty: she is here. This is just the place for her, or at least what little I know about it tells me it is. Time to get my act together. After all, information is power. I square my shoulders and go to meet my inquisitors, feeling just a tiny bit like Mary freaking Queen of Scots or someone. Must be Francis’s influence. Time to find out. I give my B-cup girls a figurative lift considering I’m not wearing a bra and head out the door. And run right into Caleb’s waiting, chivalrous arm.
Anya laughs up at Caleb as they enter the sitting room. She’s clutching her notebook, complete with pen, under her left arm. The room is like something out of the early nineteen hundreds, like just about everything else in the staff quarters. Francis had seen to that when he insisted we redecorate, something about his beloved Gianna. Of course, Caleb loved the decor. Nameless, as usual, could give a shit. I go with the flow, but it was a bit, as my Tate would say, “extra” for my taste. Tate’s memory grabs me by the balls and twists.
“You so do not,” Tate would say, laughing. “You don’t care about a lot of things, but you so are not a go-with-the-flow guy if you have other ideas. Definitely not.” She’d break into gales of laughter, caught up in her own private joke. But her laughter and her love, of me and of life, were infectious. Even the rather morose soul I’d had on earth couldn’t help but respond to her love. She’d dragged me, kicking and screaming, into enjoying life. And the ride had been more than worth it. But too short. I have to see her! The thought hits me again like a blow just as it did when I heard that a Tate was due to arrive in Bardo. But she isn’t my Tate. And as much as I need her, I shouldn’t wish to see my Tate so soon because that would mean her death, and she deserves a full life.
Francis slides an ornate upholstered chair, something that could have been designed for a queen, and bows over it slightly, making it obvious who is to sit there. Nameless sprawls in a salmon-colored armchair, his guitar at his side, pout firmly in place. Anya slides into the chair and puts her trusty notebook on the side table to her right. I sit in the chair beside it, quietly watching the action, unable to peel my eyes off the woman beside me. But I do my best to be subtle about it. Unlike Caleb.
“How do you take your coffee?” Caleb asks her.
“Double cream, but I prefer an almond milk caramel latte. I don’t suppose there’s any such thing up here?” Anya settles into her chair, looking around as if she’s not sure what to do with all the attention.
Caleb jumps up and hurries over to the dark wooden checkerboard sideboard where a high-tech espresso machine shares space with a serious spread complete with my favorite, egg salad sandwiches on fluffy white bread.
“Coming right up, but you don’t need to worry about the almond milk. There are no allergies or sensitivities in Bardo. We can’t catch earthly sicknesses, and we can eat whatever we want.” On that note, he slides several platters of food onto the large coffee table. Anya beams at him. Of course, it’s hard not to like Caleb. He’s just so damned likable, if the most disorganized person in the universe. I don’t know how he gets through life. Good thing he’s had Francis by his side for a hundred years or so.
Anya grabs a lunch plate and stacks it up: egg salad, a veggie wrap, carrot and celery sticks, and a dollop of ranch dressing. She eyes the banana bread, carrot cake, and fresh fruit and whipped cream with a grin.
“Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got things to do.” Nameless is in his customary good mood.
“Manners, manners,” Francis says, casting a quick apologetic-looking glance at Anya.
Caleb gives Nameless an uncharacteristic dark look, his imagined imprint likely offended for Anya. He heaps a huge plate then settles back into the love seat opposite her, his bulk looking ludicrous on the courtly furniture.
Seemingly unaffected, Anya beams at all of us as she takes a bite of egg salad sandwich. Her happy sigh is just like Tate’s, and it sends a double-edged barb that hits my cock and heart with equal force. But a plan brews in the back of my mind that helps deflect the emotional blow. I focus on the present and join two adoring males fawning over Anya.
“These are so good.” She takes another bite. “Egg salad, just the way I like it. Gods, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“She’s brilliant to boot.” Nameless does nothing to hide his sarcasm.
Anya puts her plate down. Just like Tate. Damn. Damn. Damn. How can someone put down a plate in a recognizable way? I’m obsessed. Here I am with a beautiful woman I vibe with, but I can’t stop thinking about my wife. It’s the guilt. Of course it’s the guilt. I had to heal h
er during her ascension cold fever, and she had to heal me. The sex was necessary. And it’s natural that I enjoyed it. That we enjoyed it.
Oh, who am I kidding? It’s more than that. It’s as if I know her, know her heart. Tate’s heart, my wicked mind echoes. Sure, she has baggage so like Tate’s. But who doesn’t have baggage? Still, all I can think about is Tate. It’s worse than that—I want this Anya to be Tate, am obsessed with the idea that she is Tate. That seals it. I’m going to see Tate the moment I can get away. That will fix my head.
I let the conversation go on around me while I plan and watch with a smirk as Anya takes on Nameless.
“Well, Nameless, I see you’re in fine form this morning. Have I said or done something to offend you during my short stay here?” Anya delivers the question, and the rebel patches in her eyes glint like the star in a moonstone.
Nameless nibbles on a piece of celery as if he’s above gluttony. I figure that while we’re still able to enjoy earthly pleasures without guilt or remorse, go for it. Maybe that explains the delight seeping into my soul. Since Anya arrived. I push the thought away.
“Not a thing.” Nameless’s stare burns with disdain hot enough to char the gods. Anya simply gazes back. They collide like opposing forces. And as much as the alpha male in me would love to take comfort in them disliking each other, their chemistry is unsettling.
“Do I know you?” Her eyes narrow.
Nameless snorts. “No, thank the gods.”
“So, it’s nothing personal, then.” Her expression softens. “You’re waiting for your destined mate. And this assignment has created a delay. I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
“Don’t ever presume to think you know what I’m feeling.” Nameless’s tone drips with venom. Anya studies him a second longer then turns her attention to the two adoring men sitting on the couch.
“Ignore him,” Francis says. “He has a very large chip on his shoulder.”
“No problem,” Anya says brightly and helps herself to some banana bread. “Mmm gooey on top and so moist, just how I like it.”
Once again, my attention is on my throbbing cock. It’s intrusive enough I wonder whether Aphrodite let Eros loose on us playing another of her nasty jokes.
She slides her empty plate on the table, takes a sip of her latte, and sets her coffee mug on the small table sitting between us. One of those ornate little things from the Art Deco period. She exchanges her mug for a pad and pen and sits at the ready, looking expectant. “So what’s first on the agenda?”
“We don’t have an agenda,” Nameless says at the same time as Francis says, “We are still curious about what brings you here.” I can tell from the way he says it that he means you specifically. Anya looks at Francis as if he’s lost his mind.
“You probably have a better idea of what brings me here. I vaguely recall Hera saying something about you four taking care of my orientation. So, let’s get started.” She taps her pen on the pad, then deliberately puts it on top of the pad and waits.
As does Francis until Caleb, our social butterfly, jumps into the fray. For some reason, Francis rarely comments even when Caleb steps on his toes. He seems to view Caleb’s gregariousness with the same tolerance and fondness he’d give an aging uncle operating on dwindling neuron connections.
“Don’t worry about him, babe. We respect your privacy. It will probably all sound like music anyway. How ’bout we play Twenty-One Questions? I’ll go first. When did you lose your virginity?” That’s Caleb, our peacemaker with more than a hint of mischief, which is quite at odds with what he becomes when he shifts to a werewolf.
“Is everything you guys do related to sex?” Anya asks.
“Nuh-uh-uh. You’ve got to answer the question first, and then you can ask your question.” Then, as if he can’t help himself, “After all, it is called the Sexy Sins Academy for a reason.”
Anya hesitates a beat. “Nineteen.”
“Ah, a late bloomer,” Caleb says.
“Was it with this beloved of yours?” Francis asks. Ah, the statue moves.
“No,” Anya says.
“Could you be less forthcoming?” Francis asks.
“No.” Anya smiles over her mug, looking directly at him. “When did you lose your virginity?”
Caleb bounces around as if it’s a game of “Pick Me.” Francis shoots his perfect cuffs and stretches his long legs, crossing them at the ankle, his suit pants once again perfectly creased.
“Fifteen forty-two. I was sixteen years and seduced by an English countess who later became my mortal enemy,” Francis answers with his usual precision.
Anya’s jaw drops open. “Awesome. I can’t beat that. Mine is boring as hell. He was a musician I got the hots for. It hurt like hell and was over before I knew it. But he had the most gorgeous long curly hair.” She looks at Caleb pointedly. “And before you ask, my Qtz was off sewing his wild oats—gods this cloaking spell is annoying. Anyway, it was before we had a thing. As long as we’re sharing, how did you lose your virginity?” she asks Caleb.
Despite being so eager to be asked moments ago, his dark olive skin turns the color of a ripe plum. He looks at the floor and fidgets on the love seat. Clears his throat.
“What all this is in aid of is Caleb finding a way to let you know he has never lain with a woman,” Francis announces.
Caleb looks as if he’s about to murder him, no longer our affable friend. A low growl sounds deep in his chest, and he clenches his fist.
“Retract your claws. No harm done,” Francis says. “We need to move this game of yours along.”
Anya looks as if she’s got all kinds of questions and doesn’t know which one to ask first. She turns to me. “And you?”
Joe Bob’s gorgeous face breaks into that smile that turns my insides to goo, the smile that makes me not exactly forget my Bob, but put him a step behind me while I bask in Joe Bob’s adoration.
“Sixteen,” he says, and nothing else.
His gaze sweeps over me, reminding me to sit a little straighter. Show the girls to their best advantage. Good gods, Tate. What’s gotten into you? It has to be this crazy place. Focus, Tate.
“Okay. So, I’m not the only one who can be less forthcoming. Go ahead. Tell us how.” I keep my eyes glued on his mostly because I’m having trouble peeling my eyes off this gorgeous hunk of humanity. And if I don’t look at him, I’m going to stare at another of the gorgeous hunks of humanity in the room—or of maleness, given that the others are not at all human. Yup, it definitely has to be something to do with this place. Or maybe it’s a spell. If Aphrodite, the goddess of love, had put the cloaking spell on us, who’s to say she didn’t put a lust spell on us, too? But I have only a vague recall of my Olympian history. I should have paid closer attention in school.
Joe Bob is stalling, so I tilt my head at him and purse my lips, waiting.
“I can’t tell you that.” His grins gets even wider if that’s possible. Of course you can’t.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because even Tate doesn’t know that story, and she gets to be the first to know.”
Truth is, the bastard probably can’t remember the details. When you’ve had as many women as he likely has, things no doubt get fuzzy. I can’t help myself. “Ah, there have been that many, have there?”
He raises one of those arched eyebrows. “Is there a question in there?”
I have no idea why I’m vaulting down this road. I probably couldn’t be any more unprofessional if I tried. Everything I’m doing goes against my management training. I should be seizing the reins and guiding the conversation . . . along business lines, not taking a romp down sex-history lane.
And I really don’t want to know. I’d never been able to find out from Bob. Seems it’s a well-guarded secret with some men. “Yes, there is. The question is, how many women have you had sex with?” The question pops out because, apparently, part of my personality just loves punishment. But turnaround is fair p
lay, and I could feel that sentiment bubbling around the room. Even Nameless’s antennae are up, as much as he’s pretending he’s part of that gorgeous salmon chair.
The buzzing in my system intensifies as I wait for Joe Bob’s answer. More proof that it has something to do with sex. I have to figure out what’s going on. It’s a compulsion. I can’t control my environment without knowledge. Another thing I’m compelled to do is take command of a situation. But, I’m kind of liking the buzz feeling now that I’m getting used to it. Not the electrical needles that come from Francis—they hurt like hell—but the buzz of heat vibrating through me. It’s like foreplay. It had been months since I was with a man. Until the other night. The soft soreness between my legs and flashes of Joe Bob’s weight on me, filling me while I writhed under him, won’t let me forget. And that taste has turned into a craving. I want more. I can hear Bob’s voice laughing in delight, “Girls Gone Wild’s got nothing on you.” Gods, how I’d loved it when he whispered that in my ear as he slid the strap of my latest lingerie off my shoulder. And followed the trail of his finger with his tongue . . .
There I go, digressing again, but my normal reactions are all upside down in this place. I’d wanted to provoke Nameless, spar with that attitude of his, but a weird feeling had overcome me. As if I could feel his pain and absolute sadness. Feel specifically that he knew he’d missed out on something spectacular but refused to acknowledge how he’d contributed to the loss. I swallow as it hits me. I think the gifts the earth version of me rarely recognized have burst free in me here in Bardo.
“That feeling is the gift of empathy. Your power is almost as strong as mine. You must learn to use it properly,” Francis says.
I wish he’d quit doing that. I’m mentally giving him the finger when Joe Bob’s velvet voice breaks into my thoughts.
“I’ve never really counted.” Which is precisely what Bob used to say. Maybe the two of them were related in a past life.
“How many lives have you had?” I’m on a roll here. I’ll get us back on the business track.
Tate's Tale Page 7
