Personal Demons

by Lisa Desrochers

  “Hello, Lucifer.” And, though his smile doesn’t falter, Gabe’s musical voice just went flat.

  “Wait … you know each other?” I stand between them, a little wobbly. The air around us seems charged with static electricity, making me tingle all over.

  Gabe quirks a crooked smile and eyes Luc. “You could say that.”

  “Unfortunately,” Luc adds. He’s sort of smiling, but under that calm demeanor he’s anything but calm. Even from a foot away, I can feel the tension in his body, coiled and ready to spring. His jaw clenches and his fists are balled at his side, dying to swing out at something—or someone. As I watch, I swear I see a tiny lick of red lightning flicker over the surface of his hand and disappear between his knuckles.

  I just stand here, speechless, my whole body buzzing with the growing electric charge in the air, and try to figure out when I slipped into the Twilight Zone. ’Cause, as my gaze shifts between Luc and Gabe, I know for sure this can’t be real. And I start to wonder if maybe Jackson spiked my beer or something.

  Angelique, realizing the attention isn’t on her, shoots me a glare before peeling off her jeans jacket to reveal a very low-cut tank top. She wedges in front of me, between Luc and Gabe, and I’m actually relieved to be released from whatever that bizarre electric pull was. But immediately, Taylor shoulders her out of the way.

  “Where’s Adam?” she asks Angelique in a slimy-sweet voice with a matching fake smile.

  Angelique grinds her heel into Taylor’s foot. “Adam who?”

  I start to feel a little dizzy and realize I’m not breathing. I back away from the group, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, trying to collect myself.

  “So …” Luc’s voice, low in my ear, makes me jump. I open my eyes and feel my legs go soft. He quirks half a smile and twists a strand of hair out of my face, looping it behind my ear. “I was hoping you’d let me drive you home.”

  It’s clear from my racing heart that leaving with Luc would be a mistake. I glance at Gabe, who’s still staring at me. A hot flush works its way up my neck into my face as I realize staying might be a bigger mistake.

  I step up next to Riley. “Are you ready? Let’s go.” I sound completely desperate, which I guess I am.

  She glances over at Trevor and smiles. “Sorry, Fee,” she says turning back to me with a shrug.

  I feel Luc’s heat, too close behind me, but I don’t turn to look at him. “I’m ready,” he says.

  Oh, God. Why can’t I breathe?

  My eyes slide back to Gabe, which turns out to be a mistake ’cause he’s still staring at me, and those blue eyes are doing nothing to help the breathing situation.

  I pull my eyes away and spin with my back to both him and Luc—and see Reefer and the band piling out of his black pickup.

  Crap.

  I turn back to Luc, careful to avoid his eyes. Oxygen deprivation makes thinking a challenge, but I’m able to stammer out, “Um … okay. We can go, I guess … if you want.”

  Riley is standing back from the catfight. I raise my voice slightly to be heard over the foray. “Riley.” She looks my way. “I’m going with Luc … ’kay?”

  The firelight flickers in her eyes as she smiles knowingly and nods.

  I glance once more at Gabe, who holds my eyes with his and shoots me a glowing smile, and then I feel the tips of Luc’s fingers scorch through the shirt in the small of my back. I catch his cinnamon as he leans in from behind and whispers, “Let’s go.”

  At his touch, a tingle starts low in my belly and works its way through me, growing in intensity till my whole body is humming—some parts more than others. I let him steer me and my Jell-O legs to his car.

  LUC

  So, He sent Gabriel. Not an angel—a Dominion. A protector from the Second Sphere. And not just any Dominion, but the left hand of the Gabriel. That can only mean one thing: Frannie’s soul is worth fighting for.

  As we pull away from the party, Frannie checks out the car. “Cool, a Shelby Cobra GT. And in great condition. This is a classic. A ’67?”

  I can’t help smiling. “A ’68. You know your Mustangs.”

  She turns to me and smiles, and I’m suddenly struck with how unbelievably alive she is. Not that all mortals aren’t alive by definition, but there are degrees of aliveness. Some people are mostly dead, even when they think they’re alive. Frannie’s not one of them.

  “That was impressive, by the way.”

  She shoots me a sidelong glance. “What?”

  “The flipping the big guy over your head thing.”

  Her eyes widen. “You saw that?”

  “I did. He has to weigh double what you do. Impressive.”

  She turns away and looks out the window. “Yeah, whatever.” But I can tell she’s smiling.

  “So …”

  “So, what?”

  “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Judo. Eight years.”

  “Interesting.” I like this girl more every minute. “So … where to?”

  She turns back to face me with a hint of a smile. “I thought you said you were driving me home.” She’s starting to relax—moving her shoulders to the beat of the music from the stereo.

  “Hmm, did I? Well … if that’s what you want …”

  Her eyebrows arch and a shrewd little smile just turns up the corners of her lips. “Did you have something else in mind?”

  “We could work on our English outline,” I say and almost can’t contain the chuckle.

  “Really? That’s your idea of a hot date?”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware we were on a ‘hot date.’ ” And this time I can’t contain the chuckle when she cringes. “So, how hot would you like it? I’m capable of all levels of hotness, from Luc-warm to—and I’m being literal here—hotter than Hell.”

  I watch her cheeks flush and the car floods with ginger. This is excellent progress.

  “Um, well … I was thinking more about … maybe we could work on that outline …” Her voice trails off, and she’s as red as the embers of Hell.

  “The outline … excellent suggestion. Why didn’t I think of that?” I turn my most charming smile on her. “Your house or mine?”

  Her brow furrows as she contemplates her choices. “Maybe I should just go home,” she finally says.

  “As you wish.”

  We ride in silence, but as I take the corner into her neighborhood she blurts, “Do you do coffee hot? There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”

  The tires squeal as I take the right turn too fast, and I work to hide my grin as she grips her seat to keep from falling on top of me.

  “So how do you know that Gabe guy?” she asks over the top of her steaming coffee cup.

  “It’s a very long story.” Seven thousand years long.

  “Are you, like, friends or something?”

  “Not really. We play for rival teams.”

  “Like, football?” She looks puzzled, not pegging me for a football player, I suppose.

  I lean forward and gaze into her eyes, brushing my fingers across the back of her hand on the table. I watch as she shudders, and an electric tingle courses through me—excitement? anticipation?—at the rush of her pulse under my fingers. I push with my mind just the tiniest bit. “You know, I’d much rather talk about you. Tell me something I don’t know about Mary Francis Cavanaugh.”

  She swoons a little and stares back for a long moment before saying, “I hate my name,” through a haze.

  “Then why don’t you go by Mary?”

  “ ’Cause that’s my sister’s name.” The fog starts to lift, and she leans onto her elbows on the table, accentuating certain curves and seriously distracting me.

  I force myself to breathe deep and look back into her eyes. “Your sister is Mary too?”

  “All of them are, but only my oldest sister goes by it.”

  “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Four.”

  “And all five of you are Mary? Th
at sounds like it’d be confusing.”

  “That’s why we don’t all go by it.”

  “What are the rest of your sisters’ names?”

  “Well, there’s Mary Theresa—she’s Mary. And Mary Katherine—Kate. Then me—Mary Francis. Mary Grace—she’s just Grace. And Mary Margaret—Maggie.”

  I bite back the chuckle. This is sooo rich. “A good Catholic family,” I say, trying to sound sincere.

  “I suppose you could say that.” Hmm … vinegar. Guilt? I’ll have to explore that later.

  As she sips the last of her coffee, she tips her head back, arching her long, fair neck and pulling her shirt tight across her chest. The wave of desire I feel is almost incapacitating. I close my eyes against it and try to clear my head. Focus. When I open them, she’s staring at me.

  “I probably should be getting home …” she says, sounding a little disappointed.

  “As you wish,” I say, wanting to take her anywhere but home.

  FRANNIE

  We pull up to my house and Luc kills the engine. The family room light cuts a yellow swath across the front lawn. Dad’s waiting up, as usual.

  Saving Abel’s “Addicted” is blasting out of Luc’s stereo, telling me about things happening between the sheets, sending my heart pounding right out of my body and my imagination reeling. I’m no angel; I’ve been with guys before. Well, not with them like that, but almost. Third Base Plus, I call it. But it’s always been me keeping score, and none of them have ever wreaked havoc on my imagination the way Luc does. It’s like, without ever touching me, he’s climbed right into my head and is looking around in there for my dirtiest thoughts and fantasies. And when he finds them, he brings them to life. I’m talking full-color, 3-D sensivision. But what I hate is, I kinda like it. No boy has ever made me feel so totally out of control. It scares the hell out of me—in a giddy-tingly-wild and not-altogether-bad way.

  I turn back to find him staring at me, and all of a sudden there’s no oxygen in the car. I draw a ragged breath. “So, thanks for the coffee,” I say, wanting to bolt out of the car but also wanting to stay all night.

  “Was it hot enough for you—coffee hot? Because next time we could try something a little hotter, if you want.” Mmm … that wicked grin… . But I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Is he making fun of me?

  “That was …” and I don’t know how to finish, ’cause what’s going on inside is a whole hell of a lot hotter than coffee. It’s everything I can do to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. “So, I’ll see you Monday.” I reach for the door handle with a trembling hand, and suddenly his hand is there, on top of mine.

  He leans into me and, with his other hand, he sweeps my hair back from my ear. I feel his lips brush my skin as he whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”

  His hot breath in my ear sends a shiver through me, and I’m mortified when I realize the soft moan I just heard was mine. Embarrassed, I pull at the door handle, but his hot hand is still there, keeping me from opening it.

  “What, no goodnight kiss?” he says, and when I turn to look at him, my nose brushes his.

  I refuse to give in to the panic bubbling up from my gut—or the part of me that still wants to kiss him. I look him in the eye and work to keep my voice even as I plant my hand on his chest and shove. “Not on the first date.”

  His expression turns momentarily amused but then softens. “As you wish,” he says. His finger scorches a track along the line of my jaw, then he leans back into his seat and smiles. “Pleasant dreams.”

  I stare at him for a moment more then push open the door and stagger out of the car. He starts the engine as I swing the door shut, but he doesn’t pull out. I can feel the weight of his gaze as I stumble up the front walk to the door. And before I close it behind me, I glance back and see the red glow of his eyes in the dashboard lights.

  I head quickly up the stairs, and when I get to my room, I hurry to the window and watch Luc’s taillights disappear down the street. I stare out the window for a long time at the spot where he dropped me off, feeling my heart pound and that tingle in my belly as I imagine letting him kiss me. I groan quietly to myself, and I walk to the dresser where I pick up my brother’s picture. “I’m losing it, Matt,” I whisper to him.

  Bringing the picture with me, I pull Matt’s journal out from under my mattress and open it on my desk. I ease into my chair and read the first lines of my last entry, from Wednesday—the day I met Luc.

  So, Matt, you’d have laughed your ass off at me today—drooling over some guy. But there’s something about him. I know. Stupid. And not like me. Please strike me with lightning if I turn into some pathetic, weak teenage girl. I so don’t believe in all that “love at first sight” crap. I don’t believe in love at all, really. But lust … is alive and well.

  I pull a deep breath, pick up my pen, and flip to the next page.

  I struggle with what else to write, ’cause my tangle of emotions is a little confusing and nearly impossible to articulate. But if there’s anyone I can tell about how I feel, it’s Matt. He was more than just my brother; he was my best friend—the only one who ever really got me. I know Matt will keep my secrets. So I tell him everything, no matter how embarrassing. I owe it to him. A little part of mine is the closest thing to a life I can give him.

  I start again.

  So, Matt. Remember that guy I told you about … Luc. I pause, still struggling to frame my thoughts into something coherent that I can put on paper. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Except him. He’s wrong. Everything about him is wrong. I can’t think or even breathe very well when he’s around. But I want him around. I know—I’m losing it. But there’s something about him. This weird, dark, magnetic energy, and even though he scares me a little—okay, a lot—it’s like I can’t stay away.

  I really meant what I said before about the love thing. When Reefer said it he ruined everything. Because love doesn’t exist—not really. Grandpa and Grandma are the only ones I’ve ever seen who were even close. It’s dangerous to believe in something that can only hurt you. So I don’t.

  But Luc …

  I shudder, looking over the shaky handwriting. I write one more line and close the book.

  Just shoot me now.

  I haul myself up and get ready for bed. But when I climb in and close my eyes I see platinum curls and shining blue eyes. Suddenly I wish I’d found out more about Gabe. Maybe Riley and Taylor know something. I grab my phone and text Riley. “Did Tay hook up w/Gabe?”

  Her reply takes less than a minute. “He left right after u. What happened w/Luc?”

  “Nothing. Did u find out where Gabe goes 2 skool?”

  “No. Why? U want him 2?” I can almost hear her laughing.

  “Shut up. Just curious.”

  I slam down the phone, frustrated, and climb into bed, glad it’s the weekend. A few days away from guys will be good, ’cause they’re really messing with my mind.

  But when Sunday comes, they’re still rattling around in there, despite all the judo and meditation to clear my head.

  “Hand me the torque wrench, Frannie.”

  I rifle through Grandpa’s tool chest and come out with it. Then I lie on the cement floor of his garage and slide in next to him under his restored ’65 Mustang convertible.

  The smell of oil and exhaust means Sunday afternoon to me. From the time I could hold a screwdriver without putting my eye out, I’ve been under a car with my grandpa every Sunday after church. My sisters think I’m weird, but I can’t imagine anything better than the feeling of accomplishment when you take something apart and then put it back together with no pieces left over—and it works. Some of my warmest memories are of being on the cold cement floor in this garage.

  “It’s coming along,” I say, looking up at where he’s tightening the last clamp on the engine we spent all winter rebuilding.

  “Not more than a week or two out. Can ya grab that wrench and hold this bolt while I tighten the clamp?” he says, and his d
eep sandpaper tone resonates to my bones.

  “Sure. You’ll let me drive it?”

  “You’ll be first—after me, course. Reward for all your hard work.” He turns and grins. His smiling blue eyes are warm and soft even in the harsh glow of the shop light hanging from the belly of the Mustang.

  “Excellent!” I picture myself cruising down the street, top down, music blaring.

  He runs his grease-covered hand over his balding head, leaving a large black smudge in the middle of the short gray fringe. “We’re almost ready for oil. There’s a case in the corner. Can ya pull four quarts?”

  “Sure,” I say, sliding out from under the car.

  “There’s a funnel over there too. I’ll tell ya when I’m ready.”

  I grab the oil, bring it back, and twist the oil cap off the engine block. “Grandpa?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did you meet Grandma?”

  He laughs—a rich sound that fills the garage and my heart. “At a street race when we were in high school. She was a good girl. Barely been kissed.” He chuckles. “But I came along and fixed that.”

  “When did you know you loved her?”

  “The second I saw her.”

  “How did you know she loved you?”

  I can hear the smile in his voice. “She told me … and then she showed me, if ya catch my drift.”

  I try to picture them young, like in some of the pictures I’ve seen: Grandpa, all strutting around in his jeans with a pack of cigarettes rolled into the sleeve of his T-shirt, and Grandma, the good girl with the mischievous gleam in her eye. And then I picture my grandma—how I loved to curl up with her on the couch while she read me the classics—and my heart aches. “Do you miss her?”

  “Every day.”

  “Do you believe in Heaven?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you think Grandma’s there?”

  “If anyone is, it would be her. I don’t think God would hold lovin’ me against her.”

  “Do you think Matt is there too?” I ask past the tight lump in the back of my throat.

  “For sure. Sittin’ on his grandma’s knee.”

  Even though I know it’s all a lie, it still feels good to hear him say it. Like a comfortable old fairy tale. “Thanks, Grandpa.”