Collapsing on the massive custom California King extra-long in a frustrated heap, he set the bottle on the nightstand and prayed for sleep to give him clarity.
His eyes closed as he also prayed to see a certain blonde beauty in his dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Miranda gazed out at the roaring crowd, the band to her back joining in. Her eyes traveled down to find silver shimmers of satin caressing her body and spilling out at her feet. Blonde tresses tumbled past her shoulders in big curls. One set of clapping hands drowned out the rest and her gaze lifted. Towering above her were the same whiskey eyes from the club.
She took her time to drink in the whole picture. Soft brown hair fell in stylishly unkempt waves, short enough to be fashionable, but long enough that her fingers begged to run through it. Rugged and purely masculine features adorned the tan face, strong nose that bore the mark of regal birth and more than one brawl. Full lips sat atop a square jaw dusted lightly with hints of a day hiding from a razor. Broad shoulders led down to a ladder of chiseled and toned muscles, her own personal stairway to a promised heaven that disappeared into a pair of low-slung black leather pants.
The liquid night wrapped his firm legs and outlined a massive erection that made her knees buckle. Captivated and speechless, she could only watch in anticipation as he strode toward her, silence following in the wake of each floor-devouring step. Her heart quickened its pace as the rest of the room fell away, leaving the two of them alone in the vast warm pool of light cast by a distant spot.
“Miranda.”
His voice rumbled, her name a prayer falling from the lips of a god. His final step brought him to her stage, close enough for her to touch.
And reach she did, her hand moving to cup the stubbled cheek, and she was rewarded with a purr that was purely male and sent shivers of anticipation down her spine.
She opened her mouth, her tongue primed with the only question on her mind, only to have her voice, her breath, and her very soul stolen away as he kissed her. His arms wound around her as his mouth devoured her. He thrust his tongue deep into the corners of her mouth and she struggled to keep pace in the frantic dance. Her body melted against his, his hard planes cushioned by her softer curves.
Groans of pure ecstasy poured from her into his mouth as he continued his amorous attack. His hands trailed up and down her spine, the thin barrier no match for him, and her dress vanished. A cry of shock broke the seal of their lips at the sudden blast of cold air. She shivered as his hot gaze traveled along her naked form.
He said nothing as he cradled her head in his strong hand, the other pinning her tightly against his hard need. His lips captured hers once again, burning a trail of licks and nips along her jaw. She clung to him as her body writhed in wanton desire.
His breath was hot against the soft shell of her ear, his teeth a delicious torture as he laved her tender lobe.
“Hey, sis? Where’s the coffee?”
Miranda lifted her head off the pillow to see Kyle’s backside as he rummaged around in her small pantry. Her eyes rolled back into her head as she groaned again, this time in frustration. The innocent sheets suffered her wrath as she curled her fingers into tight fists, the flannel fabric creaking under her ire.
“Kyle? What in the name of…Geez.”
She continued to grouse and sputter half-conceived curses as she buried her head beneath the pillow in a vain attempt to recapture the dream. Even with her eyes squeezed shut and her heart begging for the conclusion, her mysterious suitor did not reappear. She contemplated throwing her pillow at her brother, but she knew how bad her aim was, even on a good day.
Instead, she rolled over, crawling out from the warmth of her comfortable bed and her decadent thoughts, to smack him on the back of his head with the dangerous, fluffy weapon.
“Hey! What was that for?” He laughed as he ducked and dodged her relentless attack, backing him between the fridge and the countertop. “I waited til ten like you asked.”
She huffed in great gulps of air after her unexpected morning exercise, her faded Mickey Mouse flannel pjs and blue fuzzy socks not having the badass effect she hoped to achieve. She paused to catch her breath and to allow him to retreat from his hidey hole, then she whacked him one more time, just on principle.
“God, can’t a body sleep in for once?” Miranda dragged her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair, leaning back against the stove. “And I was having such a good dream too.” Her eyes drifted shut as vivid recollections of her dream lover surged forward only to vanish into memory.
Snickers grew into raucous laughter, and she opened her eyes to find Kyle nearly doubled over as the belly laughs poured from him.
“Holy crap, sis. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you whine. Ever.”
Miranda fought hard against the rising urge to continue her cushiony siege, her eyebrows pulling together as she pondered his accusation.
“I am not whining.”
He wiped the tears of mirth that dampened his lashes. “Yeah, sure, sis. And hitting on 16 is a good bet.”
Her fisted hand found her cocked hip as she glared at him through her groggy mental fog. “Oh, piss off.”
His childish grin took all the wind out of her angry sails, and she dropped her shoulders in a heavy sigh. “Now, shoo. Let me get the damned coffee going.” Still frowning, she opened the pantry, retrieving the tin of Maxwell House. As much as she needed the go juice in the morning, she couldn’t stomach spending ten bucks a pound for the stuff. So she added condensed milk and vanilla-flavored syrup, attempting to convince herself it was just as good. The second-hand Mr. Coffee happily steamed away, the kitchen cocooned by an awkward silence.
She used the quiet to reflect on Kyle’s news from last night. This was not the first time since Miranda began her indentured servitude that he had made a bad bet. First, there was the time he actually bet on the Mets to take the World Series. It has been a joke to begin with, but she ended up having to fork over three hundred bucks for that bit of hilarity.
Then the even dumber bet of the Bears winning the Super Bowl. More songs found their way into her sets each night and her hours to herself became more and more distant.
And who the hell bets on the Olympics anyway?
That last bout cost her not only her last day off, but Sal insisted that she wear that ridiculous black sequined dress. Before that fiasco, she had a stool on stage and could wear slacks.
This time? This time, she was truly terrified. Sal could refuse to release her from her contract altogether. Busying herself with the mugs and milk, she shuddered as her brain spun horror after horror as methods of repayment.
“Sis?”
“Hmmm?”
“We expecting company?”
She paused, frowning. “No. Why?”
Kyle reached to stop her hands and she realized in her mental wanderings, she had taken down every coffee cup from the shelf above the microwave.
“Ah, crap. No, I’m sorry. Just…”
His bright blue eyes met hers, the curious grin touching his lips. “Damn, Andy. That must have been one hell of dream.”
She spun away as heat crept up from the frayed collar of her flannel top, tiptoeing all the way to her forehead and singeing every inch of skin in-between. A private smirk cocked one corner of her mouth as she replaced all but two mugs.
“Yeah, well. It’s gone now, so that’s that.”
Miranda filled her Blackhawks mug, Tommy Hawk’s stern grin giving her the courage to voice her fears aloud. She took a needed sip before turning to face her brother.
“Kyle? Who exactly did you lose this money to?” She raised her hand as his standard deflections started to spill. “No, I don’t want to hear how close the game was or anything else. Who holds the marker?” She knew the news was going to be bad, so she took a seat at the two-top IKEA special sandwiched between the kitchen and the living bedroom of her studio loft.
His gaze pinballed around the room, landing everywhere bu
t on her.
She barked out a mirthless laugh, his silence the only answer she needed. “Geez, Kyle. What were you thinking?”
“I can pay it back…” he started to say as he slid into the chair opposite her, the look of childhood innocence and eagerness in his eyes.
“No. No, you can’t. Because if you could, we wouldn’t be stuck living in this glorified prison cell over a seedy nightclub where I might just spend the rest of my damned life.” She paused, stealing calm from the caffeinated goodness cupped in her hands. Her father’s words rang in her ears again, as they had in each of the previous ill-placed wagers.
“But this time—”
“Kyle! Just listen to yourself.” She set down the cup, reaching across the table for his hand. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard you say the same thing, Ky? ‘This time, it’s different.’ ‘This time, I can’t lose.’ ‘This time, I just know it’s gonna work.’ And after each…” Her voice locked in her throat, the words lodged behind the choking lump of fear.
The tears dripped off her chin before she realized she was crying. “Kyle, I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.” She stood up, intending to grab a paper towel to wipe away her emotions when Kyle pulled her into a fierce hug.
“I’m sorry, Andy. I’ll…I’ll get a job. A real one, this time. I promise.”
Her laugh sounded like someone stepped on a small dog, a tired squeak between the sobs. He was trying, she knew he was. And a real job would bring in much needed cash flow since almost all her wages from her singing gig were garnished by Slick Sal to cover Kyle’s debts, plus the cost of the room. Every Friday, she dreaded seeing the small amount they would have to cover food and everything else until the next Friday arrived.
“Honest, sis. Listen, it’s just been a bad time. We’ll come out on top. You’ll see. One of these days, sis, some big producer…”
She tuned out as Kyle rambled on about her nonexistent future as a recording artist, choosing instead to return her attentions to her cooling coffee. Right now, she couldn’t care less about some unknown record mogul finding that dingy bar. She only wanted to see those soul-searing topaz eyes again. Her mind wandered back to the vivid dream. His breath on her skin. His voice. The touch of his hands. All of it had been so damned real and promised nothing short of incendiary passion.
Her lips curled in a soft smile as her cheek tingled, imaginary fingertips tracing the line of her jaw as she lifted up the mug. Shielding her growing grin behind the plain white porcelain, she slowly dragged herself out of the whim of her fantasy and back to the harshness of her reality. Kyle continued on about luck and riches when her brain rejoined the conversation.
“Things are gonna be going our way soon, sis. I can feel it.”
Miranda sighed, her head shaking wearily as he slung an arm around her shoulder. With a brotherly squeeze, he grinned down at her, confidence oozing from his dazzling smile. Her first impulse was to berate him for his foolish dreams, rail about the cold truth of life, and squander away a good part of the day in meaningless moping. But something about a pair of burning amber eyes had even her pessimistic heart believing in miracles.
She turned her eyes back to his, an answering smile warming on her lips. “I sure hope you’re right, Ky. I sure could use with some good news. Now, c’mon. Let’s get this place cleaned up. I think the maid is gonna be calling in sick again today.”
Laughing at the long-standing joke that started with their father when they were children, Miranda topped off her mug and began the task of sorting laundry, the smile still on her lips as she hummed happy tunes for the first time in months.
No matter what today would bring, she would hold tight to that sliver of a dream.
And pray that tonight, he would return. In the flesh or in her imagination. At this point in the game, she really didn’t care. As long as she got more to fuel her nighttime fantasies, she was happy.
CHAPTER NINE
Bastian peeled his eyelids back, the sounds of voices from downstairs sifting into his foggy conscious mind. Words blurred in the haze of the half a fifth of Jack he’d handily polished off after slamming his bedroom door and staring at the ceiling for ten minutes brought no peace last night. The bourbon did little to calm his rage, but it did its job as a sleep aid, allowing him to pass out.
Not soon afterwards, the dream began. God, she was perfect, clothed in moonlight and all that blonde hair. Her lips were like heaven, and her skin tasted of desire.
Then she was gone. In the blink of an eye, she vanished from his embrace, leaving him with a raging hard-on along with a screaming hangover. He lay entangled, hugged by his ecru brushed cotton sheets until it was evident more sleep was a pipe dream. Not to mention the rise and fall of the argument happening beneath his bed did little to lull him back to La La Land.
Fuck. He wondered if the morning could get any worse. He opted to keep the words in his head, fearing that speaking them aloud would only serve as a challenge to the universe. Grumbling, he climbed to his feet, ambling sloppily over to the dresser. The front door slamming shut timed out perfectly with the opening of his bedroom door. He lifted his head, standing up with the lounge pants tugged firmly in place.
Viktor was still shaking his head as he stalked into Bastian’s room.
“I thought you fired Veronica?”
Bastian coughed past the thick gravel coating his throat before venturing to speak. “I did. Just can’t seem to convince that cagna that she’s not wanted here.” He gripped the half empty bottle on the nightstand, stealing a long swig to kick-start his brain.
Viktor stared at him with one eyebrow arched up, his arms folded across his chest, as Bastian nearly demolished the dregs of Jack in an uncharacteristic manner. “Bas, how many times have I told you: Don’t stick it in the crazies.”
His reward was a well-deserved one-fingered salute and a graphic suggestion in slurred Italian of exactly where he could stick his advice.
“Now, far be it from me to tell you how to handle females, but—”
“Consider carefully what your next words will be, fratello.” Menace slipped from his tongue as he stood and headed into the bathroom. Viktor crossed to the window, peering through the warm wooden slats, his gaze intent on the receding taillights of the baby blue Beetle.
“I mean, she’s got a nice ass and all. She might not be so bad, if she wasn’t batshit.” The sounds of the pounding shower hummed through the door, encouraging Viktor only to talk louder as he stepped closer to the door. “So, what? She knocked and you answered, or what?”
Cold water did little to burn the images of the sweet blonde singer from the forefront of Bastian’s memory. Nor did it help deflate the ramrod morning wood. If he were the sole occupant in the house, he would handle this situation. With Viktor just beyond the bathroom door, he didn’t risk it. Knowing his shit luck, he would end up jacking off for the next two hours and that asshat would listen and give commentary the entire time.
Ten minutes later, his skin mottled from the beating ice water, he shut off the valve with a growl. He grabbed the nearest towel, scrubbing away any lingering water, plus a couple unneeded layers of skin in the process. His mind churned as the alcoholic haze ebbed, leaving him alone with the thoughts on only one set of eyes. And those were definitely not the ones that met him at his door last night.
The threatening hangover took a baby step backward, but still poked just behind his eyeballs, reminding him of his earlier idiocy. Unsure if that dated back to the mistaken roll between the sheets or focused on last night’s power drinking episode, he was only sure of one fact.
He would suffer in sweet agony until he spied his songstress again.
Raking a hand through his wet hair, he stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped around his waist as he made his way to the closet. Maybe if he ignored Vik, he’d take hint and make himself scarce.
“Damn, brother. You planning on joining the Yankees or what?”
Bastian glared over his shoulde
r as he grabbed a pair of confining leathers. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Viktor smirked, the bait fully taken hold. “With that bat you’re sporting there?” His chin tipped toward the tented towel at his hips. “I’d avoid the Cubs since they haven’t had a decent team in a decade or so.”
Growling, Bastian yanked the towel off and threw the offending material at the hyena leaning against the door frame. Not caring if the damp missile met its mark, he carefully pulled on his black leathers, maneuvering his raging hard-on past the angry zipper teeth and exhaled in a rush as some of the blood returned north of the belly button. Peals of unsympathetic laughter arose from behind him and he sneered, flipping off the doorway in general.
“Did you manage to find anything else from the scene?” he asked, eager to shift the attention away from his aching cock.
Viktor pushed away from the wall, shaking his head even as the smirk remained in place. “Nothing more than what we already knew. I just can’t, for the life of me, figure out why Pieter would risk crossing the lake. Detroit has always been a hot spot for Rogues, especially around Halloween and any other holiday for that matter.”
Bastian finished dressing, black fitted Fendi long sleeve T-shirt melted into the matte black leathers. He grabbed the D&G bomber jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on as he pondered the same question. “Beats the hell outta me. I know Viggo has been lying low for a while after I cleaned his clock. I don’t think he’d let some lieutenant take over his turf. Unless… Crap. Another mutiny?”
Viggo Lancaster had run the Chicago Rogues with a recently tenuous grasp. Rumor had it his outmoded Old World approach to veiled deception and dream walking was not going over too well with the newer, more violent recruits. If there had been a coup…that might explain this latest rash of mutilated bodies and shattered Void weapons.
Spirit Song Page 7
