by Jo Raven
“Trying to distract me with your glorious naked body, Shane Tucker?”
He huffs, something relaxing in his posture. “Is it working?”
“Always. You’re too hot to resist.”
He reaches out a hand, and I walk over to take it and sit down beside him on the bed.
“Cass, can you—?”
“Can I—?”
We both stop.
He draws an uneven breath, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I’ve scared you.”
“No.” I shake my head and bite my lip. “You don’t scare me. I’m scared for you. That’s totally different. I’m not sure I’m helping you.” A sob catches in my throat.
“I’m better,” he says. “I’m getting better, Cass. Can’t you see it? Thanks to you.”
“This is better?” Oh God, this isn’t what I’m supposed to be saying. I clap a hand over my mouth.
He takes my hand down, rubs his thumb over my palm. “No, you’re right. It’s not.”
I chew on my lower lip, trying to hold back tears. “Why?”
“I lost my job today. Not a big surprise after yesterday, but…” He shrugs, and somehow packs all his frustration in that small movement. The towel has fallen down to his waist, and the strong set of his shoulders is tense. “I don’t know.”
“God, I’m so sorry.” I’m at a loss for words. “Why did they fire you?”
“The flashbacks. I was told I’m a danger to my co-workers, and what if it’s true? What if I hurt someone in one of my flashbacks? What if I’m operating the forklift, and I crash into someone?”
Crap. I lean into him, and he slides an arm around me. A sigh of relief escapes me as I burrow into his side, putting both my arms around him. His skin is still cold, but it’s warming up.
“That rattled you,” I whisper into the warm skin of his bare shoulder. “And then you fell, hurt yourself, which made it worse, and when you came back here you had a flashback.”
“In the fucking shower.” He grunts when I rub circles on his back. “Showers can trigger my flashbacks, too.”
Christ. Never realized how complicated his life could be. “So what do you do when you take a shower?”
“Try to keep it short?”
Laughter bubbles up my throat, and I bite down on it. Not funny. “You are an amazing guy,” I tell him, because it’s the truth.
He huffs on top of my head. “Very funny.”
“I wasn’t being funny.” I pull back to look into his face. “You’re amazing. You’re brave. Told you. I really like you, Shane.”
“Then you’ve got rotten luck,” he whispers, “’cuz I’m a fucking mess.” But one of those faint smiles tugs at his beautiful mouth and I can’t help it.
I kiss him.
When I try to pull back, he won’t let me. He cups my face in both hands and gives me a long and deep kiss, tongue and teeth and all. By the time he lets me go, we’re both breathless.
“I’ll beat this,” he says, his gaze determined. He squares his shoulders and nods at me, as if taking a formal oath. “This pendant you gave me, this rubber band. It’s helping. I can’t let the flashbacks win. I won’t.”
Jesus. I stare at him, shocked and moved and happy and hopeful. I’m helping him. I’m doing it, where I failed others. Where I failed Angel.
And it should be enough. More than enough. But if I wasn’t in love with him before, honestly, how could I keep from falling in love with him after today?
***
He shrugs on the shirt I picked for him from his meager selection. Boy needs more clothes. I should take him shopping someday.
But the shirt looks good on him anyway. Scratch that: it looks hot. He looks hot, despite the bruising on his face and the cut on his lips.
Like that’s a surprise. The soft white fabric clings to his muscular chest and shoulders, makes his skin look like old gold, and his hair falling over it like black silk. His dark brows knit as he buttons down the shirt, and with that soft mouth pursed, that square jaw clenched, he looks a little forbidding.
And a lot forbidden. Exotic. Handsome. Full of sharp edges and hidden fire.
Not really mine, even if I’m allowed to touch the surface, talk him back to the present, hold him through the pain.
He rolls up his sleeves, then sits down on his bed to tie the laces of his shoes, and I’m still staring at him helplessly. His every movement is so graceful and powerful and—I have to stop acting like a love-struck schoolgirl just because we fucked.
Or rather he fucked me, which I let him do, begged for it, in his bed, in his lap, on his table. Like I’ve only just discovered sex. Like a virgin.
This is where I should be rolling on the floor, howling with laughter, but I’m not. It is different with him, in every way. It doesn’t just feel good—it feels like he’s making love to me, like I can feel him everywhere inside me. He’s inside my head, burrowing into places in my mind nobody has ever been.
I turn around to avoid seeing him stand, stretching that long, sinewy body, and grab my coat and purse. “Let’s go. We’re late.”
“That’d be a fucking blessing,” he mutters, following me out.
“Not excited about the wedding?”
“Seen one, seen them all.”
We take the elevator down and step outside, into the icy winter evening. As we walk toward my car, I notice passersby slowing down to look at us.
At him. Ambling by my side, tall and broad-shouldered, loose hair fluttering, dark eyes intent.
This is the guy I play pool with. The guy I fool around with. The guy I found shivering in the shower. The guy I love.
I reach for his hand, and he wraps his warm fingers around mine, his gaze flicking at me. One side of that fine mouth tips up.
Do you love me? I want to ask him. Are you mine?
But if I do, I won’t get a chance to be around him anymore. Can’t risk it. I’ll lose him, even though I don’t have him. How screwed-up is that?
Pretty screwed-up, I’d say, even for me.
The ride to Verona is pretty short—not even half an hour, even with the Saturday evening traffic in the city, but then we leave the highway and turn into the smaller roads and streets. Thank God for Sat nav, as I’ve never been to this neighborhood before.
Drawing my lower lip between my teeth, I try to focus on the instructions, as Shane shifts on the seat next to me, snaps lightly the rubber band on his wrist.
“You with me?” I ask, distracted enough by that I take the wrong turn and have to stop. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I search his face for clues, and he gives me a look under lowered lashes that has nothing to do with the fear of a flashback or panic attack and everything to do with sex.
Whoa.
“What?” I mutter.
“Are we lost?”
“Not really.”
He tsks. “Pity. I wanna kiss you.”
Warmth climbs my neck, spreads on my cheeks. Yeah, exactly like a schoolgirl. “We’re late already.”
“And then I wanna take off your clothes and lick every inch of you,” he goes on, his gaze trailing down the front of my open coat, to my cleavage. His voice deepens. “Lick your tits until you can’t take it anymore, and then put my hand between your legs, find out how wet you are for me. After that…”
I’m waiting, breathless. “What, Shane?”
He licks his lips, and I clench deep inside.
Jesus, this boy.
“I’ll fuck you until you come,” he says simply before turning away. “I thought you said we were late?”
“Shit.”
His shoulders shake with silent laughter as I reset the Sat nav system and drive off again. “You making fun of me?”
“I was serious,” he says. “You make me want things. Crazy things. With you.” He sighs. “You drive me nuts.”
I’m smiling as we get lost in the streets once more, not caring anymore if we make it to the wedding or not, even knowing that the only crazy part of
this equation is me, for not running away while I had the chance.
Part III
Nine months after Asher’s wedding, it’s Zane’s turn—but as it turns out, some things don’t change. So here you go…
How to fuck up your friend’s wedding
Hang out with a cute psychic who has a weird sense of humor and dark predictions
Send everyone on a wild goose chase for no good reason
Re-enact the scene that got you into trouble at the last wedding you’ve been to
Make out in front of people who already have the wrong idea about you
Confess your darkest secret to an uninvited audience
Refuse to follow the rules—and that’s the first rule of all
Chapter Fifteen
Shane
For a while I have high hopes we’ll get lost and never find our way to the wedding. Cassie seems distracted—whether from my confession or something else, no fucking clue. Maybe she’s reconsidering taking me with. If she had her doubts before, she has to be sure it’s a mistake now, after she found me sitting naked on the bathroom floor, blabbering and lost inside my own head.
Something that’s been happening more and more often.
Figures this would happen when the girl I’ve wanted for so long was right there to see it happen, over and over again.
Despite the nonchalant front I’ve been putting on for her, I’m scared shitless of what it means. Plus, I can’t decide if losing my mind is worse than having my paranoia confirmed: that someone is after me, someone who knows my triggers and is playing on them.
Christoph and Marco.
Fuck.
Lost in thought, I’m startled when the car slows down and Cassie maneuvers it into a space at the curbside.
“We’re one minute late,” she says, pulling the key out of the ignition and checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror. “If we’re lucky, we’ll make it.”
Luck, as my half-brother and cousin Seth has always said, isn’t part of the equation for us. He always thought he brought bad luck to me—got me into prison, then on the streets.
But it’s me. Lost my mother. Lost myself to drugs. When Seth tried to help me, told his mother not to sell me drugs, her boyfriend took us down, put us behind bars.
Seth. I need to talk to him tonight about the flashbacks. Can’t put it off any longer. Last thing on my mind is the fucking wedding, but I get out of the car, manage not to slam the door closed and follow Cassie through the tall iron gate that’s flung wide open and into the house.
All doors open. Anyone can walk in.
Working to hide how uneasy that makes me, telling myself it ain’t any different from Damage Control or a coffee shop where everyone comes and goes as they please, I school my face into what I hope is a bored expression, but most probably comes off as a dark scowl.
If my face is supposed to be the mirror of my soul, then it’s goddamn fitting, I guess.
Murmurs waft down the hall we’re crossing, a lofty place with high ceilings and bunches of flowers in vases placed strategically on low tables on either side.
Cassie grabs my hand and tugs on it to make me walk faster, muttering something about her last chance not to piss off everyone again. Nobody manhandles me without having their face rearranged by my fists—except for her. Her thin fingers around mine feel nice, and I find myself relaxing, my scowl slipping—
Until we step into a long room packed to bursting with people, and the tension returns. Normally I deal okay with packed rooms. I’ve come a long way since my release from prison, even more since I started training at Damage Control and finding the stability Zane and his friends offered.
If only I wasn’t slipping. Going backward instead of forward.
Fix it, I tell myself, keeping my eyes ahead as Cassie drags me between people, opening a path for me to follow. Fix it like you told Cassie you would.
Fight the past. It can’t fucking claim you, not anymore.
A raised dais dominates the center of the room and the soon-to-be-wed couple is standing there. Zane’s blue Mohawk stands out as we approach, as does his dark outfit—black with silver metal over his shoulders—and Dakota is dressed in a long blue dress with long, fingerless gloves and huge, white wings strapped to her back.
The demon and his angel.
The benevolent demon and his sexy angel.
Cute.
Looks like we arrived in the middle of the ceremony, as the Justice of the Peace is droning about contracts and patience and paths in life. He’s a tall fellow, incongruously formal in his gray suit and golden-rimmed glasses.
And I’m not only talking of the couple. A quick glance around the room shows me that nobody else is formally dressed, and that takes my tension down a notch. Actually, after a second look, probably the most formally dressed people here are Cassie and myself.
Fucking figures. When you don’t fit in, you just don’t.
It makes me grin, though, forget about my troubles for a while, seeing that the small crowd is as colorful as they come. Dakota’s family, mostly, I assume, since Zane doesn’t have any relatives he knows of. Looks like they’re fans of the seventies. Lots of Indian skirts and batik blouses, long necklaces and huge earrings, hair dyed in all the colors of the rainbow, silver bracelets and leather bands.
Zane leans close to Dakota, whispers something in her ear that has her snickering. The Justice of the Peace shushes them and goes on to read some more boring stuff. After that, if memory serves, comes the cheesy part with the love-ever-lasting oaths and the best man’s speech—that would be Rafe.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m fucking happy for Zane and his girl. If anyone deserves a happily-ever-after, as cheesy and brilliant as it comes, is Zane and his friends. If I’m still standing, if I have any shred of sanity left, it’s thanks to him.
I’m just not in the right frame of mind right now, even though Cassie is standing beside me, even though to all appearances she is with me, something I never could have dreamed back in summer, at Asher’s wedding.
My attention wanders again when the couple is invited to sign the contract and polite applause breaks out.
Can’t see Seth and Manon. I hope they’re somewhere around here.
Otherwise, as it turns out, not everyone in the room teleported from the seventies. After a moment, I pick out Zane’s friends—Asher with his son in his arms and Audrey by his side, Tyler alone, behind them Dylan with Tessa and Rafe with his arms around Megan. Then my group: Ocean and Jesse with Amber, Micah with Evangeline, their clothes more somber.
Huh. Maybe I don’t stick out so fucking much after all.
And that, right there, is my mistake. Clothes aren’t gonna make a difference. I’m going crazy, I lost my job, I can’t take a goddamn shower without being reduced to a fucking mess, and here I am, at a wedding reception, pretending to be like everybody else, to belong in a group.
Pretending to be good enough to hold Cassie’s hand in public.
Gently I disentangle my fingers from hers, mutter an excuse about having to take a leak, and get the hell out of there.
***
Don’t give in. You’re okay.
I slam my hand into the wall by the sink in the bathroom I discovered down the hall and press my forehead to the smooth surface.
Too much. I’ve tried to keep my calm, keep my cool, not freak out, but it’s all coming back, the fears and worries driving into me like shards of glass, jagged and sharp.
Do I have enough for my rent this month? Can I afford my apartment until I find another job? What kind of job can I do if not construction? What if I have more flashbacks and lose that one, too?
What if Cassie leaves me? What if she’s fed up of dealing with my shit? Hell, I wouldn’t blame her.
Fuck, fuck. I slam my fist again, my knuckles burning. I welcome the pain. My hand drifts to my throat, finds the pendant, clutches at it.
Breathe, Shane. Fight it.
One hand on the wall, I focus on the c
ool surface under my palm—the sharp points of the pendant in the other.
Okay. Okay. It’s okay.
But it fucking ain’t. Where the fuck is Seth?
I turn toward the door, determined to find him, lay down my cards, and ask for help for the first time since we left the streets. Not that he hasn’t offered before, but I thought I was getting better, and he had problems of his own. Now, though… Now I’ll take the help.
“Shane?” The door swings open, showing me not Seth but Cassie. “There you are. The ceremony’s over. I thought…” She falls quiet, staring at me.
I’m still clutching her pendant, still trying to slow down my breathing, draw back from the claws of panic.
Christ.
“Are you okay?” she asks, and although I’m pleased she’s worried about me, I’m also sick to death of this question.
I’m never okay, it seems. And it shows.
So I do the one thing that makes me feel grounded, and real, and good. I walk over to her, put my arms around her and kiss her.
After a startled gasp that I feel against my lips, she winds her arms around my neck and kisses me back. She’s warm and pliant in my hold, her tongue stroking mine, and my panic is quickly vanishing in the heat spreading in my gut.
Pushing her back against the wall I was punching only moments earlier, I kiss the hell out of her, running my hands over her tiny dress, over her curves. Banishing my demons. She’s my bright talisman. Fuck the pendant. Fuck the rubber band.
It’s her.
I’ve known it from the start, and it should have sent me running as far away as possible—the thought of depending on another person, of needing and wanting someone so much. Of being so easy in my skin, and happy, when I’m with her.
What if she really wants me, too? Is it possible?
Her hands are under my shirt, stroking my chest, one of her legs curled around mine, all those soft curves pressed up on my body, and I’m so hard I might bust a nut standing like that—when someone bangs the door open all the way.
“The fuck?” I jerk back, the calm I’d found fading into a cold shiver.
