The Truths about Dating and Mating

by Jaycee DeLorenzo

  “You're free. I won't book you tonight. We don't have you down as a prostitute, so consider this a warning.” He wriggled his pen in my face. “But if we catch you in the Cross again, you won't be so lucky.”

  He would never catch me again. It was a miracle they got me tonight. I saluted him. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  Half his mouth quirked in a smile. Damn, did he have to be so sexy? He looked as if he stepped off a Billabong advert for board shorts. Great, now an image of him half naked and dripping with salt water paraded in my head. Time to leave.

  Standing, I edged toward the door, raising my eyebrow and tapping my foot. “Do you mind releasing me then?”

  He stood. He was taller than I originally thought. A whiff of cologne battered me—a scent of salt and spice; summer evenings with stolen kisses. Whoa. Get away from this man immediately.

  “I'm not letting you go that easily. You haven't eaten, I can tell. I'll buy you dinner before I'll call my work done for the night.”

  My eyes bugged. I didn't hear him right. “Dinner? You want to buy me dinner? Yeah, pull the other leg.”

  This guy was ludicrous. Or insane. I'd go with insane. I bet he rescued puppies and kittens and nursed them back to health. Well, newsflash, I was neither a kitten nor a puppy. I had teeth and could freakin’ well take care of myself.

  “Maybe some other time.” I cocked my head at the exit.

  He refused to open the door. A look stole across his face as he stepped into my personal bubble. “Not negotiable. Don't make me cuff you.”

  He played with fire. I did not appreciate threats, but a free dinner would be good. My eyes narrowed. “Fine.” I tried to think of an expensive place that was healthy too. I'd been living on crap for so long. “I want sushi.”

  “No problem. I love sushi. I'll take you to Yachiyo.”

  Chapter Two: Ocean

  The basement level sushi restaurant was like entering a decadent cave—all dark wood, booths with kimono patterns, and filigree lanterns. As we stepped over the threshold, the three chefs yelled, “Irasshaimase!”

  I cringed, bumping into a warm torso behind me. I hated being in the spotlight. If too many people knew your face, they could turn into witnesses.

  “It means welcome—Japanese people say it when you enter their homes.” Officer Bliss smiled, green eyes glowing in the low illumination.

  Too close. He was too close.

  Taking a hasty step away, I kept a scowl planted on my face.

  A waiter, dressed in a smart red uniform, bowed, and motioned for us to follow. The cop's hand touched the small of my back, urging me forward. I jumped a mile. He touched me! Crap, did this man have no boundaries?

  My skin erupted into sparks of fire, and not good fire. He had no right to touch me. For all he knew I was a hooker—one touch and he might catch gonorrhoea. Stupid man. Slapping his wrist, I glared. “Keep you paws to yourself. Comprendez-vous?”

  “You speak French?”

  “No touching. Got it?”

  That tiny frown appeared between his eyes again. “Understood.”

  I huffed and followed the waiter, pleased when he directed us to a dark, private booth with a Japanese screen sheltering it from the rest of the restaurant. Perfect. If I had to disappear the only witness would be the annoying cop. And I didn't care about him. I wasn't planning on returning to Sydney anytime soon. My next stop was Manchester, England. A certain someone was due a visit.

  Pressure built behind my eyelids, warning my power had ignited. I forced myself to breathe deep; to relax so the pressure diminished. It was a constant tightrope. Too much stress, too much sensory input or emotion and pop. Bye, Bye. Why didn't I allow my power to whisk me away when the sirens first sounded? I could’ve avoided this whole fiasco.

  Oh, that's right, I needed food. Rule number one of teleporting: No fuel. No port. Stupid rule.

  “What will you have?” Officer Bliss asked, fanning open the menu.

  I didn't need to read the selection to know. Japanese food was my favourite. Crossing my arms, I said, “I'll have teriyaki chicken with a side plate of mixed sashimi.” Glaring at the cop opposite, I slipped into seductress mode. “If that's all right with you of course, Officer Bliss?”

  Annoyance flared, followed by amusement in his eyes. “No acting. I can see right through it. And call me Callan.” A sun-highlighted eyebrow rose. “You like raw fish? Straight up?”

  I couldn't tell if he was disgusted or happy. With his practiced blank expression he was unreadable. My lie-detecting abilities misfired on him.

  “What's it to you?” Seriously, I wasn't a charity case to plump up or care for. As far as he knew, I was a broken girl who was a street walker.

  “Nothing. That's my favourite dish, too. Just thought it was interesting.”

  The way he said interesting caught my attention. The sneaky man was reading me. The glint in his eye told me he wasn't a passive cop. This one was dangerous.

  The waiter approached when Callan stuck his hand up. “We'll have two teriyaki chicken bowls and a large platter of assorted sashimi with two Coke Zeros.”

  “Great choices.” The waiter smiled and took our menus, hustling away to place our order.

  My eyes narrowed. I didn’t appreciate his attempts to understand me. The sooner dinner was over, the sooner I could disappear.

  Awkward silence charged the air between us. My body was raw with nerves. Not good for controlling my power. Blowing chocolate bangs from my vision, I looked around the restaurant. Low-slung bolts of scarlet fabric draped from a central chandelier to the corners of the room. It was rich, inviting. Cozy.

  Callan fiddled with his napkin—another tick against sitting still. “So, you're Australian?”

  Now the questions would begin. My life wasn't a secret—it was now, of course. But I could share up to the age of twelve. After that, I was off the grid. “No. I'm not Australian. Not originally. But you are. A true-blue Aussie mate.” I put on the accent for his benefit.

  Callan studied me as if I was a bug under a microscope. His green eyes were a laser—unwavering. Unnerving. “If you aren't Aussie where did you come from?”

  I hated getting into this. It was a mouthful and a half. “Let's just say it's a long-winded topic.”

  “I like long-winded. Shoot.”

  I groaned, and ruffled my hair, very aware my boobs were on the cusp of popping out of my top.

  Callan was suddenly very aware too. His jaw clenched, but he didn't look away.

  A smile slinked over my mouth. “Like what you see?” I leaned forward, testing him, letting him get an eye full. “Buying me dinner won't buy me, you know. I'm a lot more expensive. Priceless even.” If he didn't understand that piece of information—that I was admitting to not being a hooker, then he was an idiot.

  “You're not a prostitute, are you?” Ah, give the man a prize. He wasn't some blond surfer with salt water for brains.

  I leaned back, grabbing a soya bean, and popped it in my mouth. “What makes you say that?”

  “You don't have a used feeling about you. Your eyes aren't glassy with drugs, or vacant of emotion, and frankly you scare me a little. No self-centred john would willingly pay you for anything. His cock would most likely end up chopped off.”

  Our drinks arrived, and I choked on my sip. Had they found the bastard I sliced after all? Was this all a game? I scanned the restaurant for other cops. There was only one other couple in here at five in the morning, and they were lip-locked over their California roll. Safe. For now.

  “Clever,” I muttered. “Are you going to tell on me?”

  “What? That you aren't a prostitute? Why would I? That's excellent news. Much better for our streets you aren't putting yourself in danger. And for you of course. The riff-raff hanging in the Cross shouldn’t be messed with.”

  Oh, I messed with them all right. I snorted, twirling the straw in my Coke. “Trust me. I'm never in danger.” Even if I was, I just teleported the hell out o
f there. No big deal.

  “So. Continue. Where are you from?” His voice was rich, deceptive. He oozed confidence and something else. . . something vulnerable which made me want to open up with the hope to get him to open up.

  See. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

  Our meals appeared, and we both smiled as the waiter laid the dishes with a flourish. “Itadakimasu.”

  Callan repeated it with a grin, while I tucked into my teriyaki chicken.

  My stomach growled, and fingers fumbled with the chopsticks in my rush to eat.

  On my second over-stuffed mouthful, Callan cleared his throat. “When was the last time you ate?” Protectiveness shone in his eyes.

  I rolled my eyes. He'd known me a couple of hours and moaned about my eating habits. Not gonna fly with me.

  Forcing myself to slow down, I glared. “You only get one.”

  “One what?”

  “Question. Do you want me to answer where I'm from, or when I last ate?” I popped a piece of salmon sashimi in my mouth, after drenching it with soy sauce and pickled ginger.

  “You. Tell me where you're from.” Callan placed a piece of chicken in his mouth, his movements predatory, watchful. Eyes never leaving mine, he speared a piece of tuna sashimi with his chopsticks.

  “My mum is from Cambodia. My dad is from England.” Crap. Was from Cambodia and England. When would I stop stumbling like that? “I was born and raised in Thailand, before moving to Sydney when I was five.” Gathering some rice, I smiled. “That's it. I'm a mutt. I don't belong to any country or any nationality. I don't belong to anyone.” Get that hint, kangaroo boy?

  “You're not that unusual, and it wasn't that long-winded either. I expected more.” His eyes dipped to focus on his teriyaki chicken.

  Did he just insult me?

  Despite myself, I was intrigued. “What do you count as unusual then? You? Mr. probably-never-left-Australia-in-his-life.”

  He finished eating, before giving me a hard smile. “My dad is from Russia, my mum from New Zealand. But I was sent to boarding school in America. There, I joined a school exchange program and lived in Korea for a few years. I've only just returned to Sydney after living in Bali for five years. I speak two languages and have a law degree.”

  That was quite a resume. But it all begged the question: What was he doing as a foot cop in the seediest part of Sydney? Why wasn't he a detective or a lawyer? “You whet my appetite, Officer Callan.”

  He choked.

  I laughed, enjoying his discomfort. Men were just too easy to manipulate.

  Licking my lips, to further the bloom of embarrassment on his cheeks, I added, “You're a puzzle, and I like puzzles.” Rather I liked solving puzzles to find if darkness lurked behind them. And by solve, I meant killing. “Lucky for you, I've been to all those countries you speak of and I’m fluent in three languages.” I smiled sweetly. “Considering I dropped out of school at fourteen, I think that's a big achievement compared to some college graduate.”

  Callan swallowed his mouthful. “There’s no passport on file for you. You're lying about the travel.”

  My stomach clenched; the pulse in my temple warned I was perilously close to disappearing.

  I shrugged, hiding my indignation. “You don't know anything about me, Officer Callan. Don't assume everything you need to know is in that little file of yours.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “What?”

  “My name is Callan. Just Callan. I'm not on duty now.”

  “Well, you won't be able to claim this dinner as an office expense then. Pity.” I rolled my eyes, and finished the last piece of chicken.

  Callan watched me chew, tension so thick I tasted it between us. He took a sip of Coke. A small dewdrop remained on his lip. “I want to see you again.”

  I refused to give in to the jolt in my belly. I cocked my head haughtily. “You told me I scared you. Why on earth would you want to see me again?”

  Nerves danced in his eyes; he rubbed the back of his neck. Any other girl would have been swept away by the endearing rejected look he wore. Not me. Of course not me.

  My stomach clenched. Get a grip. He is the law. The enemy. Time to leave, Ocean. You've overstayed as it is.

  I made to stand, but Callan's hand shot out and grabbed mine. “Do you have a phone number I can call you on?”

  “What? So you can take care of me? Make sure I'm safe and well fed?” I laughed. “I don’t need taking care of. Now take your paws off me.” I glared at his hand until he dropped it. “Chase some other tail.”

  He stood. I didn't like the look in his eyes. Gone was the calculating surfer boy trying to read me, replaced with a hard edged cop who wanted what he couldn't have. “I want to chase you. You're like me. I can tell.”

  Now that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. “Yeah. Okay, Callan. We're both so alike.”

  I planned on running out the door while he paid the cheque, but it was obvious with the way his body guarded the exit, it wouldn’t be that easy. Fine. I had another plan.

  “I'd like to get to know you, Ocean. You're different.”

  “You know nothing about me. Let’s leave it at that.” I took a deep breath; power swirled from my stomach, erupting behind my eyes. Teleporting was a very convenient way to travel, but fuck it hurt. The migraine took over. I wanted to throw up my dinner. I groaned, letting the pressure build.

  Callan took a step toward me. “Ocean, are you all right? Here, sit down.” His hand grazed my elbow and I fractured a little. The ground grew soft as smoke. The room shimmered with air wisps. Stealing the solidity and replacing it with a dream of kimono and filigree.

  “We are nothing alike and you're right. I am different than other girls,” I panted, tugging his shirt so he stumbled into me. His wild, salty scent suffocated me as I whispered in his ear, “I kill monsters. I'm the grim reaper and my work is never finished. I'm not what you think. Goodbye, Callan.” I had no idea why I told him—it was an impulse which I followed recklessly. The migraine burst a rainbow of colours into my brain, and the sushi restaurant disappeared with a pop.

  An imprint of shock and amazement in those sea-foam eyes haunted me as I spiralled into speed and nothingness. I wished the transportation power worked faster, but it took a good ten minutes of stomach warping momentum, and brain haemorrhaging pain, before downtown Manchester wisped around me—condensing from dream to reality, followed quickly by sounds of car horns, voices, and smells of mini doughnuts.

  I was in England.

  Sample of The Crimson Hunt by Victoria H. Smith

  Book One of the Eldaen Light Chronicles

  A new adult science fiction romance, by Victoria H. Smith

  Available Now.

  Author Contact Details:

  victoria.smith775@gmail.com

  Twitter: VictoriaSmith76

  Facebook: AuthorVictoriaHSmith

  Blog: http://twentysomethingfictionwriter.blogspot.com/

  Chapter One

  “Hey, loser, would you keep it steady on your end?” Piper asked with a huff. “You’re wobbling more than a frat boy after last call.”

  I looked around my edge of the couch with incredulous eyes, unable to believe her nerve. I shouldered most of the weight. “Well, maybe if you put out that frickin’ cigarette and gave me some help—”

  “Hey, easy with the attitude.” She continued to speak out the side of her mouth, a smoke cloud curling from her lips. “You should be kissing my feet right now. If not for me, we would have paid twice the amount he was asking for this damn thing.”

  Her grin was smug as she puffed on her cigarette, or as she liked to call them, “ciggies.” One week-long excursion in Europe last spring break that almost resulted in an arrest involving a monkey and a pretty wigged out local, and the girl thought she was cultured.

  I waved my hand in front of me, deflecting the vile fumes.

  “You aren’t going to make a habit of smoking those things in the house, right?
” After two long years of putting up with people sneaking smokes in the dorms, it would be nice to finally have an option of whether or not I would die from second-hand smoke.

  Piper whipped around her firecracker-red bob like I just asked her to give me her soul for safekeeping.

  “So we’re establishing house rules, now, are we?” she asked. “How about this?” She set down her end of the couch, forcing me to drop mine. She made a sloppy scout’s honor sign with her fingers—as if I’d ever believe she’d been a Girl Scout. “I promise not to smoke in the house, if you promise not to have a stick up your ass the entire time we’re living together.”

  The girl really was as sweet as sugar. “Well, since we’re creating terms, how about you abide by one of my own? I promise not to have a stick up my ass, if you promise not to bring a new guy into the house every other night . . . or if you so choose to do so, at least grant me the common courtesy of playing your music loud enough so I don’t have to listen to all the moaning and groaning.”

  I held out my hand for her to shake. She wasn’t the only one who was good at this game.

  She propped her hands on her hips and tapped her foot, looking to the sky while she considered my terms.

  “Touché, my friend. You got yourself a deal.” She shook my hand, smiling.

  I didn’t know how we did it, but we managed to get the blasted thing all the way up our creaky, splintered front stoop and into the living room without killing ourselves. And we managed to save the fifty bucks it would have cost to hire a moving service. Although I suspected the only reason Piper suggested calling movers was so she could sit in a lawn chair in her bikini and sip lemonade while staring at their asses.

  “Thank God!” Piper collapsed on the couch, sending a cloud of dust into the air. She waved a hand in front of her face to clear the particles from her vision. “I guess we can get a slipcover or something.”