by Stacy Gail
“You.” His forehead nuzzled hers, and her heart did a strange elevator-drop when his breath feathered across her lips. It was a tangible, intimate caress that made her ache to know the feel of his mouth on hers. “It’s always teasing with you. I don’t know what else to call it when you don’t take me seriously.”
“Now, now.” She skimmed a bold hand down his lean, muscle-sculpted stomach, past the hem of his retro-style bowling shirt, and curled her fingers over the waistband of his jeans. Her knuckles rested against the golden-brown line of hair arrowing down from his navel to the place that held her attention, and she knew they were both focused on that skin-to-skin connection as if their lives depended on it. “I’m taking this very seriously. Can’t you tell?”
“Taking this seriously. Not me. Right out of the gate, you avoid making it personal.”
Before she could guess his intention, Kyle caught her hand up and brushed the inside of her wrist with his mouth. Just like that, her breath halted while the world seemed to pause. How strange, was all she could think, her eyes glued to Kyle’s lips against the fragile skin of her wrist. A simple chaste kiss from him had her imagining his touch was capable of conveying all sorts of things—things like he was thrilled she existed. Things like she was one of the more cherished elements in his world. Things like she mattered to him. Outside her family, she couldn’t remember when she’d mattered to anyone.
Then he dropped her hand and stepped away, that half-lidded, lazy smile she knew so well lightening his features. “Why don’t you buy me an early dinner at your tía’s instead? You can afford it now, and I’m sure you’ll want to be there while I tell her all about you and The Toy Box.”
With her blood still simmering and his rejection stinging her pride, she graced him with a surly glower. “You’re not really going to tell on me, are you?”
“Guess you’ll just have to come along to find out.” And with another infuriating smile, he headed for his low-slung muscle car.
* * *
Yolanda’s Cocina Cubano was one of Kyle’s favorite hangouts. Located across the street from the locally famous Maximo Gomez Park—or Domino Park, as it was the place in Little Havana to pick up a game—Yolanda’s trailer-sized restaurant was an open-air café complete with a constant stream of Caribbean/Latino music, tables shaded with bright umbrellas and a simple walk-up ordering window that produced the best Cubano cuisine north of Havana. The culinary magician working the small but efficient kitchen was Yolanda Campos, Nikita’s raw-boned, perpetually cheerful aunt who seemed to be on a one-woman mission to mother every person who crossed her path. Kyle had no doubt that her graying hair, tied back in a neat bun, had once been the same almost-black coffee color as Nikita’s, and she shared the same lanky build of her niece.
But that was where the similarities ended. Where Nikita’s onyx doe-like eyes were shuttered and guarded better than Fort Knox, Yolanda showed her heart in each passing expression. While Nikita’s seemingly easy-going poker face was a challenge he couldn’t resist, her aunt’s warmth was like coming in out of a storm, and he could do nothing more than return her welcoming hug with enthusiasm when they arrived.
“Ay Dios, why is it you’re thinner every time I see you?” Yolanda’s tone was scolding as she hustled them toward a picnic bench behind the restaurant under a sprawling, centuries-old live oak strung with tiny white lights. It was where Yolanda’s extended family and friends ate, and he loved her all the more for the way she automatically included him in that group. “Do you ever eat?”
“I had some day-old pizza this morning.”
She gasped in horror, as if he’d just admitted babies were crunchy. “Sit. You should be dead from hunger by now. Don’t give me your orders, I know what you need,” she added when Nikita opened her mouth. She waved her bony hands in distress before scurrying to the restaurant’s back door. “First course is empanaditas de camarones with a tart mango salsa. After that you get pollo y platanos. If you clean your plates, maybe you get dessert. Play nice while I’m gone.”
Sliding onto the bench, Nikita pulled her sunglasses up to perch on her head. “Camarones means shrimp. Pollo means chicken.”
“I have eaten here before, you know.” And he’d lost count of how many times he’d endured the quiet torture of watching Nikita eat. He really had an unhealthy obsession with her mouth. With her upper lip fuller than her lower, the shape of it was pure sex. The sight of it was so blatantly enticing he’d almost given in to the urge to sink his teeth into it the first moment they’d met years ago.
Not exactly the most normal thing to do when first meeting someone, true. But considering his chronic impulse issues, he was still proud of the restraint he’d shown.
That out-of-the-blue impetuous desire had only gotten worse over time, and it didn’t help matters that the interest appeared to be mutual. But as appealing as it was to consider carrying their attraction to the next level, something about the way she treated him held him back. She’d made it as clear as day that she saw him as a convenient scratching post she might use if she ever had a passing itch. Friends with benefits were all well and good; hell, he’d be a lonely guy if casual sex didn’t exist. But he couldn’t ditch the feeling that he’d be an idiot to treat her like an easy one-nighter.
At the very least, Yolanda would stop feeding him.
“I think I’ll wait until tomorrow to head back to The Toy Box. I have a feeling I stirred things up enough in that dive for one day.”
That had his brows lifting. “Looking for one more twirl around the pole, Sparkle? Nice moves, by the way. Very professional.”
“I wanted to go upside-down in the splits, but I was worried the cuffs would fall out.”
“Coming from you, that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” Hunger coiled in his gut, edgy and demanding as the memory of where she’d had those cuffs hidden taunted him without mercy. Her performance had gotten him so excruciatingly hard he’d had one hell of a time getting out the door and into his car where he could alleviate the problem himself.
Problem. He almost snorted out loud. Uh-huh. What a quaint euphemism for yanking his crank until he came with Nikita’s name escaping the cage of his gritted teeth, an act he’d never done in his car before and didn’t particularly relish the idea of ever doing again. At least not alone. If she ever again made him so hard he could barely walk, then to hell with avoiding the casual-sex trap. He’d insist she’d have the common courtesy of helping him take care of it.
“Pole-dancing is actually a pretty good workout.” A gust of wind blew her hair around her face, and she eyed the darkening clouds scudding across the early evening sky. “But I do believe my stripping days are over.”
Too bad. “So why go back?”
“I left my clothes there, as well as a dummy purse that still has a few bucks in it. And the Beirs brothers owe me about a week’s worth of wages,” she added as an afterthought. “Come to find out, the good customers of The Toy Box aren’t the biggest tippers the world has ever seen.”
“You just picked up fifty-large, and you’re determined to not miss out on a nickel-and-dime paycheck?”
“Hey, don’t judge me, Kyle. I did the work, and money is money. Big or small, I love it all.”
Kyle had to give her credit. When it came to money, Nikita was as consistent as dawn itself. “Then why don’t you want to team up with me?”
She sighed. “Not this again.”
“I’m serious, Nikita. It makes sense. We’re the best bounty hunters in Miami—”
“Didn’t I collar more jumps than you last year?”
“But I made more money than you.” He knew he’d scored a point when she grimaced. “Nothing would really change. We bag and tag the bail jumpers same as always, but instead of the fugitive being pulled between us like a rope in a constant tug-of-war, we work as a team and split everything fifty-
fifty.”
“That’s the part I don’t like.” She wrinkled her nose while Yolanda returned with her assistant trailing behind her, carrying large food-to-go clamshells and drinks. “How many times do I have to tell you, Kyle? I don’t play well with others, and I don’t share what’s mine.”
“Don’t you listen to a single word that comes out of this girl’s mouth when it comes to that subject, Kyle.” Dropping their food and drinks in front of them, Yolanda smiled her thanks at her worker before pointing a finger at her niece. “From the moment my Nikita came to live with me, she’s been giving me everything she has. It’s as though she’s afraid I might shoo her away like some unwanted puppy if she doesn’t offer something every five minutes.”
Nikita’s face flushed until it was the color of brick. “Don’t be ridiculous, I never thought that.”
Yolanda waved a careless hand. “Nikita gives with all her heart. She just doesn’t insist on getting any standing ovations for it.”
“What your niece gave to me today was a whole lot of trouble.” Ignoring Nikita’s discomfort, Kyle dug into the thick, stewed magnificence of coconut—and lime-marinated chicken, black beans and plantains. “She scooped up another bail jumper before I could make my move.”
“Oh, yeah? She beat you again?”
“Do you have to say it so gleefully?”
Nikita’s aunt cackled and clapped her hands. “Of course I do! Was it a big bounty?”
“Big enough.” This came from Nikita, her shrug unimpressed as she covered a small, golden empanadita with sweet and spicy mango salsa. “The real payoff, though, was pulling it right out from under Kyle’s nose.”
Yolanda let out a little squeal of delight. “I’m so proud of you, chiquita. How did you do it?”
“Oh, I can tell you all about it.” Just for kicks, he sent Nikita his most winning smile. Since she’d made him suffer, she might as well pay for it. “Every single detail.”
“You want to tell the story, do you?” Nikita took in a breath and met his gaze head-on with eyes that were suddenly as lifeless as the moon. “Fine. Go right ahead.”
For a moment he considered it, but with that one look he realized it wouldn’t have mattered. When she wanted to, Nikita had a weird, almost inhuman way of pulling the inner plug on her emotional hard drive. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was made up of wires and circuitry rather than flesh and bone.
“The truth is, Nikita was better than me—this time around.” He caught her hand that held the small bite of empanadita, and guided it into his mouth. That waxen, blank look he disliked so much vanished under a wave of surprise and a darker, more dangerous fire of awareness as he deliberately closed his lips over her thumb and finger and sucked the morsel in. He licked at her flesh, ostensibly to clean off every last bit of food, but there was no doubt she enjoyed the sensation, if the parting of her lips was any indication. And when he at last allowed her to pull away, a thrill of satisfaction flamed through him at how her gaze lingered on his mouth. “But as of now, all bets are off.”
It seemed to take a lot for her to finally drag her attention back up to his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that after what you put me through today, it’s finally dawned on me—I need to kick things up a notch. Whether you like it or not.” A distant rumble of thunder from an approaching squall line sounded, and he smiled when he caught her shiver.
Chapter Three
Despite the houseboat’s sturdy moorings, Kyle still detected the faint motion of the water in North Bay Village Marina. The squall that had crept in last night after sunset was trying its best to drown Miami, intensifying as it hit the summer-heated ground. Still, as rain-heavy as this thunderstorm was, it had nothing on the big daddy of a storm he sensed lurking behind it, further out to sea but gaining in strength. Its sullen whisper was faint but steady, promising to make today’s bad weather seem like nothing more than a gentle mist.
Hurricane season in Florida. Gotta love it.
With nothing more than the foul weather to keep him company, he sat crossed-legged and naked on the pale blue rubber matting that covered the security-glassed, panoramic-windowed exercise room. But instead of watching the sheets of rain chase across the water to slam inland, his eyes were closed against the pearlescent light.
With his eyes closed, it was easier to drift with the squall’s frenzied life.
He loved it when it rained. Stormed. Raged. He loved the energy of it, how it thrummed through him like a living thing, singing a song of euphoric delight that was just for him. If he focused enough, he’d be able to see the weather system’s energy patterns. Or, he could do something far more dangerous and guide it to his will. Instead, he simply floated with it for the sheer exhilaration of the out-of-body experience, riding its mercurial spasms of released electrical energy. Only when he sensed it meandering farther north did the enjoyment dim, and reality bobbed to the surface.
Is Nikita out in this mess?
Lightning had licked the earth countless times since sunrise. He’d felt every single strike as if it had come from him personally. If he opened his senses to it, the explosion of raw power would be enough to get intoxicated on, but he was the only one who got that much of a kick from it. To everyone else, lightning was a killer, not a negative ion joy-buzzer.
Nikita wouldn’t be stupid enough to go gallivanting around in a storm for some clothes and a piddling little paycheck. Would she?
Yes, came the immediate answer. Without a doubt, yes. When it came right down to it, Nikita lived just as dangerously as he did.
With the greatest reluctance, Kyle lowered his inner defenses and sank that hidden part of himself into the storm. Slowly, carefully, he tugged at the roiling energy until he owned it. Made it a part of him.
Every muscle tensed in anticipation, and sweat beaded on his brow as his system quivered with the first giddy wisps of euphoria. The sensation was extraordinary as he took hold of nature itself, as wild as free falling or skinny-dipping. Or free falling while skinny-dipping. Without another thought to caution, he gulped in the brunt of the storm’s power until he thought he’d jitter right out of his skin.
He wouldn’t take in all the energy. Just enough to make sure Nikita wouldn’t be in danger. Just a tiny little bit...
An ethereal hum began deep inside. Static crackled over his skin, turned the air around him blue, and shivered along his nerve endings until his body vibrated like a jackhammer. His teeth chattered with the force of it, and if he hadn’t tied his hair back it would have floated around his head like a goddamn Halloween fright wig. He let out a howl that was like the storm itself, but it never reached his ears while the power billowed all the more. He wasn’t used to this kind of rush. It was a rare thing when he allowed himself to absorb a storm’s power; it was just too damn dangerous. Getting fried wasn’t the risk he ran. He doubted any of his kind could be electrocuted.
The problem was the unnatural influx of negative ions to overexcite a mob of neurotransmitters, primarily dopamine. It felt too damn good.
For the average human brain, what was commonly known as shock treatment was used in the worst cases of depression, and with good reason. Electric stimulation kicked off a chemical reaction that elevated mood and brought pleasure back into the patient’s life. In a controlled environment, it could be a good thing. Even miraculous.
But there was always the possibility of getting too much of a good thing.
The human brain was a delicate instrument, a fact he knew all too well. Putting too much of anything into it upset its balance. When he dared to absorb the energy of a storm, his synapses fired so fast, so chaotically, he went on stimulation overdrive. If he ever decided to go on a roller coaster while mainlining a quart of espresso made with energy drinks instead of water, he figured the sensation would be about the same. He tried to regulate his breathi
ng while his brain flooded with a mix of electrically stimulated chemicals, a dangerous cocktail that had plunged his father into the deep end of schizophrenia and drug abuse.
Maybe he’d been a bit off base to think no one like him could be fried. Lightning couldn’t touch him, true. But shorting out the gray matter by absorbing too much energy was always a distinct possibility. His own father had proven that much, irreparably damaging his brain and dying unaware of who he was or where he was by the time Kyle was a senior in high school. That pathetic image of a man broken by a power never meant to be wielded by human hands had stayed with him ever since, convincing him that their unusual bloodline was pretty much screwed from the get-go. If anything, however, it had made Kyle that much more determined to be everything his father was not: sober, clean and almost never giving into the desire to use his powers. That was how it had to be for someone like him. Someone who wasn’t quite human.
He kept his eyes closed as the power reached a crescendo, and he could feel the delicious tingle on either side of his spine as the static tried to coalesce into the wings he never allowed to be free. The longing to wallow in the giddy excitation, to run or laugh or have mindless sex or—God help him, suck in more energy—had him groaning as he instead focused on where his body made contact with the rubber matting. Virtually everything in his home was created to withstand even the greatest electrical jolt, from the rubber matting, to the wooden floors of the bedroom loft, to the ceramic tiles everywhere else. No conductive material on any surface, he’d made sure of that. Frying his home from the inside out was definitely not on the menu.
In his mind’s eye he imagined the power now housed in his body to pour out in a slow, steady stream, like water from a pitcher. By degrees his heart rate slowed. Minutes dragged by as the frenetic cacophony within his system lessened. The humming that vibrated in his head stilled, and the staccato crackle of static that had tickled him like a flirtatious lover faded away after what seemed like an eternity. Then, finally, all was silent.
