Headlong

by Shannon McKenna

  “To do what? Be your sex toy?”

  “To be my lover. My lady,” he said patiently. “We’ll figure it out as we go along.”

  He saw her answer on her face, but the words still hurt like a knife.

  “No,” she said flatly. “And you’re breaking faith with me by asking.”

  “You were ready to leave before—”

  “Seven years ago! I was twenty-two years old, for fuck’s sake!”

  “You could follow your original dream,” he said. “You could follow it more easily if you were further away from your dad.”

  She gazed at him, mouth half open. “You’re insane, Eric.”

  “Maybe. I’m also dead serious,” he told her. “I want you. Always have.”

  “It’s been seven years since you last saw me,” she said. “On the basis of what? One amazing roll in the hay, and you’re sold? All is forgiven?”

  “Technically, it’s more like three amazing rolls in the hay—”

  “Don’t you dare get cute with me.”

  “Didn’t mean to,” he said swiftly. “It just came out.”

  Demi turned away. Her back was shaking. He realized, horrified, that she was crying. He reached to touch her shoulder. “Demi—”

  “Don’t.” She pulled away swiftly. “Just…stop. Just shut up.”

  “What’s happening? Why are you freaking out on me?”

  “You can’t just spout bullshit like that! Out of nowhere!”

  “It’s not nowhere. I’m dead serious. It’s just my timing that’s crap. As usual.”

  “You have no idea what it took for me to get over what happened. What it took for me to shake off my dad’s control and build something for myself. A little restaurant in Shaw’s Crossing might not look like much to you, but it’s everything to me.”

  “I never meant to belittle what you’ve done,” he said.

  “But you think I should ditch it and run off to your place in the city to be your concubine? Wow. That’s living the dream, Eric!”

  “Pursue any dream you want,” he urged. “Open a restaurant in San Francisco. I could help you. I have plenty of money.”

  “Don’t you dare wave your money at me,” she said sharply. “This was never about money.”

  “I never said it was. I wasn’t implying—”

  “I don’t do crazy dreams, Eric. I do concrete, realistic plans. You’re not in any of mine. Not after what happened.”

  “You mean the Porsche, right?”

  She tossed her hands up. “Well, yeah. Duh.”

  He swallowed, hard. “So you’re never going to believe me.”

  “It’s too late for me to make that call anymore,” she told him. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe not. I certainly don’t trust my dad to tell me the truth. But I won’t gamble my whole life on the basis of your word alone. Not with our history. Sorry, but no.”

  He couldn’t make a sound. There was too much pressure in his throat.

  “I’m sorry,” Demi said. “I can’t go that far. I’ve given you what I could. I gave you the fantasy tryst on the island. I fed you. I fucked you. It was incredible. I’m glad we finally dispelled the mystery. But look.” She gestured at the window. “It’s almost dawn. Reality time. We knew it would come, and I’m not going to get suckered into daydreams about some fantasy future with you. I’ve heard that song before.”

  “I meant to propose to you, Demi!”

  “So you said. But you didn’t. Reality prevailed. In a big fucking way.” She seized a terry-cloth bathrobe from a hook on the wall and put it on. “Now it’s prevailing again.”

  Eric hadn’t been this angry since after the Porsche episode. He wanted to howl and rage. Rip doors off hinges. Knock holes into walls.

  No. That wasn’t him. He clenched his fists and hung onto his self-control.

  “We’re done here,” she said. “I’m taking my shower. Be gone when I get out.”

  “Damn it, Demi—”

  “This thing has run its course. Goodbye.”

  She marched into the bathroom, coming back with his muddy clothes and boots. She laid them down outside the door without looking at him, then pulled the bathroom door shut.

  The click of the lock was very loud in the silence.

  14

  You accepted her terms. Don’t be a whiny little bitch.

  The stern self-talk was not working. Eric pulled on his clammy, mud-caked clothing and made his way down the steps, no longer even trying to avoid leaving a trail of dirt behind himself. The damage was done, the mess was made. Fuck it.

  He’d fallen at her feet like an asshole only to get thrown out once again.

  Kick me please.

  He had to get out of here before he went crazier than he already was. And the bar was set high, for a guy raised by the mad Prophet. Marked by fire and death.

  Demi’s shower was running now. He put on his jacket, trying not to picture her in there, naked and wet and furious. Convinced that he was a liar and a thief.

  This was the Curse at work. It repelled her, like it had repelled everyone else. Everyone but Otis. But Otis was special.

  He was also in a box in the ground.

  Who knew? Maybe that was the Curse at work, too. It ate everything in the end.

  He should have followed Anton and Mace’s example, and fucked off. Sorted everything out from a safe distance, via third parties.

  Right. Like Terry.

  The memory of Terry’s dead, startled eyes and bloodied face ran him down like a fucking train. He felt a lurch of nausea. Had to stop and bend over for a second.

  Go-go-go. Now.

  He pushed his way out the door from the stairway to the foyer. The remains of their feast still cluttered the kitchen. In the living room the coals glowed a sullen red in the pre-dawn gloom. The couch cushions were still askew, some scattered on the floor.

  He opened the door and stood there, staring out for a moment as the clean, sweet cold air of dawn hit his nose. The sky was heavy and dark. Eerie tendrils of vapor rose like wavering ghosts up over the mirror-smooth surface of the lake.

  The smell stopped him as he leaned forward to take that step outside.

  Sour cigarette breath. Old armpit stench.

  He jerked back as a blackjack whipped down. It grazed his forehead and cheekbone. He lunged for the attacker’s wrist, yanking him inside. Smashed the wrist against the door jamb. Crunch. A punch to the throat choked off the attacker’s howl.

  Eric hurled the first guy into the second guy, who sprang from a hiding place on the other side of the door. Guy Two stumbled back, hitting the porch post with a grunt. Guy One bounced off him and tumbled off the porch stairs, arms pin-wheeling.

  Big guys. Black ski masks. More were coming at him. A third came darting from the other end of the porch. The second charged back at him again with a yell.

  He blocked the kicks, and a roundhouse punch. Caught the punching arm—twist and flip—and hurled the attacker straight into the porch railing.

  The railing splintered, and the man pitched head over ass into the shaggy greenery beyond as the third guy barreled down on him.

  Eric whipped to the side to save his head. Took the club on his shoulder, fucking ouch. Caught the guy’s arm. He shrieked as Eric twisted it. Tendons tore and popped.

  He smashed the bastard headfirst into the wall siding, and jabbed a savage side-kick to his knee and another to his head when he hit the ground. Stay down, prick.

  Smash. Picture window. One of them was inside. With Demi upstairs, naked in the shower. No fucking way.

  Blood trickled into his eyes as he darted back inside. The guy was in the living room. Eric charged him. They toppled onto the coffee table and it caved, snapping in two.

  They wrestled on the floor, rolling in shards of glass. This guy was bigger. Heavier and stronger than the others. His pale blue eyes in the holes of the ski mask were gleeful. Crazy fucker was actually enjoying this.

  The guy was snake quick, jabbing a kne
e to his Eric’s balls that stole his breath. Suddenly he found himself rolled underneath, the guy’s huge hands around his throat.

  The woodstove to the side of him radiated heat. Eric lunged out toward the wood box, struggling to breathe, groping wildly until his fingers closed around a twisted chunk of scrub-oak.

  Whack, he bashed the blue-eyed maniac in the head with it.

  The guy’s strangling grip faltered. He tottered and swayed. Eric shoved him off, wheezing for air through his bruised, swollen throat. He saw the flickering shadow behind, and spun around—

  Bzzzzzzzzzz. Jolting agony burning against his chest. “Not so fast, prick.”

  A stun baton. Taking him down. Tearing him apart. A furious stare through the holes of the ski mask hanging down over him. Dark eyes. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  Fuck. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see. Demi.

  The asshole laughed, his foul breath hot in Eric’s face as he leaned forward to gloat. He pressed the electrodes against Eric’s throat again with crushing force. “Lights out, asshole,” he taunted.

  Thunk.

  The man jerked—and toppled forward heavily, right down on top of Eric.

  Eric struggled beneath the man’s smothering weight. He could barely make his body move, or make his chest expand for air. He shifted the guy’s weight with huge effort.

  Demi stood behind the man, barefoot, dark hair dripping over her terrycloth robe. Her eyes were huge and shocked.

  The white marble pastry rolling pin she held was splotched with blood.

  Demi dropped the rolling pin and hurried to help him flop the man off of Eric, and onto his back.

  Eric sat up slowly, rubbing his throat. “You okay?” His voice was a rasping croak.

  “Me?” Her voice cracked. “You’re the one who just fought five big guys in ski masks and then got zapped with a stun baton. And you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

  “You just saved my ass,” he told her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. After you saved mine ten times over first.”

  Eric tried to put the stun baton into his coat, but he was still too clumsy and disoriented. His whole body felt shaky and numb.

  Still, he looked her over with a frown. “You’re wet,” he said. “And barefoot. It’s freezing in here and there’s broken glass everywhere. Are your feet okay? Did you get cut?”

  Demi suddenly saw all the shards of glass from the broken window and tried not to shiver in the chilly breeze that swept inside. “My feet are fine, Eric.”

  He got to his feet, still staggering, and looked out the door, monitoring the felled attackers. “Go get dressed,” he told her. “But first tell me where I can find something to tie these scumbags up.”

  “Ah…there should be duct tape in the pantry cabinet. Let me go look for it. I’ll be quicker.” She backed away. “You’re, um…watching them?”

  “I’m not taking my eyes off these fuckheads until they’re behind bars,” he assured her.

  The low vibration of a phone sounded loud in the quiet morning. It was the last guy, the one who’d stunned him. Eric leaned over, and felt inside the man’s pockets.

  He pulled out a burner phone. It buzzed insistently in his hand. He locked eyes with Demi as he opened it up, held it to his ear and waited.

  “So?” a rough male voice said. “What the fuck’s taking so goddamn long?”

  Eric hesitated, trying to remember the voice his attacker had, and then gave it his best shot. A low, gravely rasp. “Done.”

  The other guy grunted. “Good. There in ten.”

  The call ended. Eric flipped the phone shut and crouched down next to the fallen men. He unzipped his big black jacket, tugging it off.

  “Eric? What the hell are you doing?” Demi’s voice was sharp with alarm.

  “I’m going to talk to their ride.” He stripped off his leather jacket and pulled on the attacker’s coat. “Should be interesting.”

  “But you don’t even have a weapon! You need a gun!”

  “I’ll take one of their blackjacks. I’ll be fine.”

  “Eric, you can’t just—”

  “No time to argue.” Eric crouched down and yanked the ski mask off the head of the other unconscious man, looking with distaste at the blood on his fingers before he pulled it over his own head. The man was young, with a fleshy, freckled face and gingery hair. Blood dripped from a wound on his temple. “Get the duct tape. Let’s secure these guys before the boatman gets here. Move!”

  The edge in his voice made her jump to it. She brought duct tape, and Eric got to work with brutal efficiency, fastening the attackers’ arms behind their backs, then their ankles. Then he bound the guys who were lying outside.

  He glanced up at her. “That’ll do for now. Get dressed. I don’t know what’s coming our way.” He picked up the bloody rolling pin and handed it to her, along with the stun baton. “Keep these. Get your phone, call the cops and get outside, ready to slip out back into the trees and disappear.”

  “But I can’t just—”

  “Go, goddamnit! Move!”

  Demi ran upstairs and yanked on her clothes, searching feverishly for her purse, her phone. She called the local police and stammered out the situation as best she could to Holly, the operator. Holly put her on hold while she held the phone in place with her shoulder and tied her boot laces with numb, ice-cold fingers.

  “Demi? You there?” Wade Bristol’s voice came on the line.

  Tears welled into her eyes at the sound of his voice. “Chief Bristol?”

  “They told me you were attacked? Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “I’m out at Dad’s cabin on Spruce Tip Island,” she told him. “Eric fought them all off, but he—”

  “Eric Trask? He’s out there with you?”

  “Yes. He took them all down.”

  “Is he injured?”

  “He got zapped with a stun baton, but he seems okay from what I can tell,” she said, peering out the window.

  She jerked behind the curtain as she saw a boat approaching swiftly, pushing through the glassy surface of the water to create a triangle of ripples. “Oh, shit.”

  “What? What’s happening?” Chief Bristol demanded.

  “The boat’s here. The one that brought the guys who just attacked us. Eric is going out to meet whoever’s on it.”

  “Demi, run out back and hide. Now.”

  “Gotta go, Chief. I’ll call after and tell you how it went.”

  She thumbed off the sound and crept down the stairs, stun baton in one hand and rolling pin in the other.

  Two bound intruders lay there on the floor. The redhead was awake now and squirming, face empurpled. He looked up at her, wild-eyed, and made garbled sounds in his throat from behind the tape Eric had stuck over his mouth.

  “Save your breath,” she told him. “Not interested.”

  The kitchen window had the best view of the lake, so she sidled up to it and peered out the curtain.

  That bastard weighed a fuckton. Eric sweated in the guy’s heavy coat as he dragged the unconscious man down toward the dock. He’d picked the attacker who was closest to his own height and build to drag toward the boat, which happened to be the dude who stank the worst. And the ski mask he was wearing was slimed with sweat and blood.

  The coat pulled tight at the shoulders. No time to plan something smarter. This had to go down fast. He couldn’t overthink it. Strike like lightning. Shock and awe.

  The hum of the approaching boat’s motor got louder, and then cut out as the guy maneuvered next to the dock. He too wore a ski mask. Eric kept his back to the boat, dragging the unconscious man by his armpits and careful to keep his body between the boatman and the bloodied, bearded face of the guy he was dragging.

  “Where are the others?” the boatman asked as he tied up.

  Eric grunted with effort. The man’s boot heels bumped over the planks. “Inside,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “Getting the girl ready for trans
port, huh?” The boat guy let out an ugly laugh. “I wouldn’t mind guarding that bitch’s cage. Nice rack. Sweet ass, too.”

  Eric stepped into the boat, heaving the man over the side, and flung him down onto the deck. The man’s head made a loud, hollow thunk against the wooden deck.

  The boatman looked down. His eyes widened—and Eric whipped the blackjack down, whack.

  The boatman dropped like a rock, right on top of his colleague.

  A sound behind him spun him around, but it was just Demi running lightly up the dock toward the boat. “I told you to hide!” he scolded.

  “You need duct tape to secure him, right?”

  Couldn’t argue with that. He grabbed the tape and mummified the ever-loving fuck out of both those scumbags. Wrists, elbows, ankles, knees, around and around. Total overkill. They weren’t going to so much as twitch until someone cut them free.

  It was sweaty work, taping and dragging the other four bound men down to the boat. Demi tried to help, but he pushed her aside. He worked faster alone.

  His mind was buzzing with adrenaline, speculating on the ramifications of what had just happened. What he had just heard. Hating every single goddamn one of them.

  Soon he and Demi were heading across the water in the attackers’ boat. It rode low in the water and went slow, overloaded with assholes as it was. They could have used Demi’s boat and distributed them, but he didn’t like having her out of his reach and with any of those fuckheads, even if they were bound hand and foot.

  Demi had arranged for the police meet them at the marina. Soon they’d be able to turn over their cargo to the law. But he kept on hearing words of the boatman before he copped to Eric’s ploy, playing on repeat in his head.

  Getting the girl ready for transport, huh? I wouldn’t mind guarding that bitch’s cage. Nice rack. Sweet ass, too.

  The boatman had expected an unconscious man, plus Demi. The guys were there purposely to abduct Demi, but his own presence was no surprise to them. What the fuck?

  Eric had been targeted before in Shaw’s Crossing. He’d been forced to defend himself more than once. Many people had strong feelings about the Prophet and the Curse.