Threescore & Tequila (Toil & Trouble Book 4)

by Heather R. Blair

  “Fine, what do you want? And if you’re expecting to get sex out of this, you’re high.”

  “Seems you have sex with me on the brain.”

  “I’m not the one sporting a gigantic hard-on!” I snap, wriggling again.

  “Gigantic? You’re doing wonders for my ego today.”

  “Your ego doesn’t need any help.” With a curse and a breathless whisper I get out enough of my rhyme to throw Stephen off of me. There is a crash that makes the floor tremble as he flies into the wall. As I get to my feet, he’s shaking his head, blinking hard. But the bastard is still smiling.

  “I want a date. A real one. You can’t duck out early or run away. And I get a kiss.”

  “A date? Are you serious?”

  “And a kiss. And yes, I am.” He gives the shattered window a rueful look. “Very serious, Jett.”

  Bentleyville. The fucker takes me to Bentleyville.

  An enormous holiday light show hosted by the city of Duluth from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, complete with free hot chocolate, cookies and, of course, the big fat guy in the red suit. It’s nothing like the Christmases of my youth, London decked out in garlands of green, the Thames a thick, grey ribbon winding through mounds of glistening snow. The smell of chestnuts and mulled wine. The sweet hymns of carolers mingling with the bright cheer of bell ringers.

  No, this place is all glittery, loud and bright. More than a bit crass.

  I love it.

  We walk under archways sparkling in every color of the rainbow, watching the humans ooh and aah and giggle. Stephen draws his fair share of stares and giggles as well. I roll my eyes as a blond stumbles against him. He rights her with a smile that makes her jaw go slack. She almost falls again before going on her way, looking back over her shoulder like someone hit her with a confounding spell.

  “Take pity on the natives, furface.”

  His sidelong look is full of amusement. “Maybe they should take pity on me. That wasn’t an accident, Jett.”

  “What are you talking about? You think she did that on purpose? God, your ego—”

  He pulls a napkin from his pocket. “Proof.”

  I snatch it from him. “Is that her number?”

  He laughs as I glare back along the pathway. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “It’s a bitch move to hit on a guy when he’s with someone, no matter what the circumstances.”

  “Ah well, people can be sneaky when they want something.” His words sound odd. Almost . . . guilty. I frown.

  We’ve already had two cups of hot chocolate each and mounds of cookies but Stephen pulls me in line for some popcorn as soon as we emerge from the tunnel.

  I snag the bag from him and take a big handful. It’s warm and buttery and delicious. I lick my fingers clean while he watches, those blue eyes brighter than the lights around us. He meant something with that last statement, I just can’t figure out what. Then my eyes narrow as I realize it was his idea of a confession.

  “Georg was never going to show up today, was he?”

  He’s blushing. Like seriously blushing. “I think it’s time for marshmallows. I’ll go get the sticks.”

  I whack his shoulder. “Was he?”

  “Eh, he might have gone up to Thunder Bay for the day. All part of my evil plan, doncha know?” The accent is more Fargo than reality, but it makes me laugh even as I shake my head. He collects our metal forks and sticks the marshmallows on them. We head over to the giant oil drums filled with firewood and burning merrily.

  “I’m beginning to think your honorable reputation is total flimflam. Lying. Impure thoughts concerning beds and chains. Tricking a defenseless woman into a date.” I tick them off one by one, then wag a finger under his nose.

  He grabs it. “Defenseless? Really, Jett?” He brings my finger to his lips and nips the pad lightly. “Now who’s the liar?”

  I yank my hand back, telling myself it’s the lake wind that has my nipples tightening up under my sweater. Not him, or the feel of his mouth on my skin.

  Yeah, I’m just as much of a liar as he is.

  After the marshmallows (we both like them well charred), he insists that we stand in line to see Santa, which is just ridiculous enough to tickle my funny bone. After jolly old St. Nick, we squeeze into a photo booth, which is hard, because, well, Stephen. Somehow he squeezes his bulk in behind me, but he won’t stop goofing off, running his fingers over my ribs and nibbling the back of my neck until I’m laughing so hard I can’t catch my breath.

  This isn’t me. At least, it’s a me I haven’t experienced in so long, I forgot she was in there. Something about Stephen makes me feel easy and calm. Relaxed. Almost . . . safe.

  I knew this fucker was dangerous.

  We’re hip to hip behind the Santa exhibit, leaning against the barrier and watching a sixty-foot metal tree light up in time to Mannheim Steamroller.

  “What were you like as a kid?”

  I give him a look. “That’s a bit random.”

  “That’s what dates are for, isn’t it? To be random and nosy and all that crap?”

  “I really wouldn’t know. Haven’t done much in the way of dating.”

  “That’s because no one’s been clever enough to fight you to get one.”

  I shake my head. “You say clever, I say suicidal.”

  He grins. “You grew up sometime in the 1800s, right?”

  Great. We’re apparently not letting this go. “1840s London, mostly.”

  “Did you have a coming-out and all that fuss? Somehow I can’t imagine you all prim and proper.”

  “No.” Despite my lack of amusement at this subject, I laugh. “I was not your usual simpering Victorian miss. I was pretty tough, even then.” Not tough enough, though.

  “Except about bugs, of course.”

  I reach over and smack his ass.

  He only grins wider. “Spanking now? At this rate, I’ll have you in that dominatrix outfit by Christmas.”

  “Keep it up and I won’t tell you jackshit.”

  He zips his lips solemnly and cocks his head, waiting.

  “Mom wasn’t around much when I was a teenager. Neither was Ana. Mom was too busy juggling timelines and”—I swallow and shrug without meeting his eyes—“other Mom stuff.”

  “And Ana?”

  “She was busy being in love and getting ready for her wedding. Russian prince. Bit of an ass, but she was crazy about him.”

  Stephen frowns. “You don’t mean Viktor Vasilisa?”

  “I do.”

  “Your sister was engaged to the Firebird Prince?” I forget sometimes that Stephen is Old World-born. Here in the Americas even people in the FTC world don’t fuss too much with royalty. They’d know the title, of course, and the story—hell, even humans have the ballet, though as per usual, they got the story assbackward and inside out—but few would recognize Viktor’s given name.

  “‘Was’ being the operative word. It didn’t work out. Relationships and Gosse woman are like that.” I give him a pointed look, but he only raises an eyebrow.

  “Don’t borrow trouble, sweetheart.”

  “Comes of having a mother that can travel through time.”

  He ignores this. “Sounds like you were alone a lot.”

  “I was.” I shrug. “I didn’t mind.” Of course, I did—at least until Lev came along. I sigh and look out over the multicolored snow. Angst is a great target for a con man to exploit.

  It’s a long while before Stephen speaks up again, his voice gentle as he plucks the direction of my thoughts from thin air. “You still haven’t told me why you despise bruins so much.”

  As ridiculous as it is, I almost tell him, right there across from the flashing Christmas monstrosity. I almost spill the whole sordid tale before sanity takes hold again. I let go of the railing I didn’t realize I was clutching like a life preserver, my hands aching. “What does it matter to you?”

  His voice hardens at my flippancy. “It matters. Gods, haven’t you figu
red it out yet?”

  “Figured what out?”

  Those blue are eyes blazing, despite the darkness. “You’re mine, Jett. My mate.”

  I laugh. Hard. Stephen just stands there, not saying a word, those eyes pinning me down. I cough. He can’t be serious. “Nobody does mates anymore,” I say weakly. “That’s old school, even for me.”

  “I’m an old school kind of guy.”

  It hits me then: he’s dead serious.

  “No.” I back away, sliding a little on the packed snow. He grabs me before I can go over, but I slap my hands against his chest, trying to push him away, trying to push down the panic fluttering in my throat.

  I shouldn’t be so surprised. I’ve seen the look in his eyes; that possessive yet dazed look that shifters get when they latch onto someone. Why not blame it on some freakish magical bond? “You’re delusional, bruin.”

  “Am I?” The low question has my heart racing.

  It’s not true. I’m not his. I don’t belong to anyone.

  My chin comes up. “This date is over.”

  And damn if my stomach doesn’t twist up at that.

  Even after his crazy pronouncement, the thought of walking out of this neon fairy tale and not seeing him again hurts. What the fuck is wrong with me? He grabs my chin before I can turn away, his fingers gentle, but firm. I expect irritation at my less-than-overjoyed reaction, even anger, but the softness of his voice surprises me.

  “It can’t be over yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t gotten my kiss.”

  Even though my throat tightens, I force out a careless laugh. “Who says you’re getting any—”

  His mouth slants over mine, tasting of cocoa and burnt marshmallows. His lips are firm and sweet and so very, very hot. Like a drug, Stephen’s heat steals into me, liquid and slow. My heart seems to stop beating, my head spinning faster than the lights twinkling around us.

  It’s not my fault, because dear Christ, the man can kiss.

  Behind me the sound of Christmas music fades away. My eyes close, the lights still strobing against my lids, but I don’t notice. Everything is gone but him. It’s icy and cold, but Stephen’s smell surrounds me, fresh rain and bright sunshine. I wrap my arms around his neck, instinctively trying to get closer.

  His big hand palms the back of my head, one muscled arm circling my waist, lifting me clean off of my toes as he deepens the kiss. A rumbling growl I can both feel and hear slides from his mouth and into mine along with his tongue . . .

  9

  I don’t even hear Seph until she’s practically shouting in my ear.

  “Last call!”

  I blink and look around T&T. Somehow it’s just me and her and one guy heading for the door, looking like a whipped pup.

  “Where were you, sis? Or should I say, with who?”

  I wrinkle my nose and take the proffered shot. “One guess, and the first one doesn’t count.”

  She gives me an impatient look. “It’s not like you to mope around this way.”

  I haven’t been moping. Okay, so I might have caught a bit of the morbs. This past week has left me at loose ends. Merry hasn’t gotten in touch, my investigation is stalled without him, and I have a certain bruin stuck in my brain every waking moment. Along with nightmares disturbing every second that’s left. The results of this concoction are that I’m spending a lot of time at my sister’s bar, watching her work and wondering what might have been. That’s not moping, it’s—

  “So, I’m moping. Isn’t that how you make a profit on this place?”

  “Go talk to him.”

  I glare at her. “There is nothing to talk about. He’s made that clear.”

  “Bullshit. I mean sure, what you did was fucked up”—only Seph could reduce me putting a sword through her back to those two simple words—“but he understands what would have happened otherwise, right?”

  I shrug. “Maybe it’s all just a little too fucked up for him.”

  “I don’t think so.” There’s a considering look on her face. “Stephen—he’s a forgiving guy. I saw it, the night Georg died.” She tosses back a shot of her own, then stares at the empty glass. “He could have blamed me for that. Agatha sure did. From what Syana says, she was rabid when she heard. If you hadn’t gotten to me that night, she might’ve.”

  “She was in shock. She’ll have calmed down by now.”

  Seph snorts. “If Agatha knows I’m alive, I sincerely doubt she is happy about it. My point is, Stephen never once put that on me. He may have honor up the ass, but he’s not judgy about it, Jett. I can see him being mad. I can see him needing some space to sort it all out in his head. But cutting it off with you completely? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I mean, honestly, Seph. Me and a bruin? Come on, we both know that shit was never going to fly.”

  She presses her lips together, looking back into the dregs of her shot. Her face is suddenly pale and pinched. And it’s not like Seph even knows the whole story. Not that anyone does. Only me and one very dead bruin. That’s the way it’s going to stay.

  “It’d be like Mom taking up with Odin.” I smile tightly, trying to lighten the mood. “Or Loki. No more gods for her, no more bruins for me.”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Do you ever think about him?”

  I stare at her in shock. “Lev?”

  She flinches at the name she’s probably only heard once or twice in her entire life. “No. Our father.”

  “Don’t call him that.” My hand tightens on the bar. “He doesn’t deserve the title. Trust me. I worked with the bastard for months.” And if that hadn’t been enough to convince me that blood does not tell, I don’t know what would. Thank Christ Mom got us away from him. She’s made her share of mistakes, sure, but at least she learns from them.

  And she’s never flinched from making the really hard decisions.

  “When did Mom tell you guys who he really was?”

  I hedge, my fingers digging into my thigh beneath the bar. “I think she told Ana and Carly the night she dropped off your present.”

  “But you already knew, didn’t you?”

  Dammit. “She had to tell me who he was. It was essential for her plan to work.”

  “When?” she demands again, her voice hard.

  “A couple of years ago.” I sigh. Like I’m not carrying enough guilt where Seph is concerned. “Right before she left, actually.” And hadn’t that been a fun conversation? Hey, sweetie, your dad is back. Remember that murderous nutjob we ran through time to escape? Well, he’s actually a god, isn’t that something? And by the way, I need you to kill your sister before she destroys the world.

  I rub my temples to avoid meeting her eyes.

  “I never could have kept that to myself for so long,” she mutters. There is no accusation in her voice, but I feel another stab of guilt anyway.

  “Why do you think Mom had to hide it from all of you?” I restrain myself from pouring another hit of the Patron. Like Seph, whiskey is my drink of choice, but lately tequila has been tasting awfully good. “Christ, even as a toddler you never ran from anything.”

  “And you’re the embodiment of caution, are you?”

  I shake my head, my lips twisting faintly. “It may not look like it from where you’re standing, but I am incredibly cautious.”

  “You never talk about it. About him.” And this time she is talking about Lev. Lovely. “Maybe you should, Jett.”

  “What’s to talk about? I made a mistake and I took care of it. End of story. Stephen and I”—I get to my feet while I still can—“that was a mistake, too.”

  She twirls her shot glass, not looking at me. “What if he’s not? What if he’s your once-upon-a-time?”

  I don’t bother to stifle the incredulous laugh that bubbles up. “I get it, Seph—you and Jack found your fairy tale. It’s amazing and I’m pleased as punch for you both, but you can’t expect a happily-ever-after for everyone. That’s nuts.
”

  “Stephen will come around. Bruins can be stubborn, but Georg always said Stephen was the best man he’d ever known.”

  “You miss him, don’t you?”

  “Georg?” She looks up, startled.

  I know how much my sister loves Jack Frost. There was never any question he was her destiny. Not to me. But I also know who held her together when she was broken inside. It’s the only time I’ve been grateful to a bear. And it’s the only reason I didn’t blast Georg off that pier when I had the chance. It’s why I tried to give him a warning in the only way that I could. Not that he listened when I finally got my audience. Stupid bruins.

  Seph’s voice softens. “Of course I miss Georg. Remember that. Remember him, Jett. Not all bruins are beasts.”

  “Actually, that’s exactly what they are.” Even Georg tried to kidnap Seph in the end. They can’t help their nature.

  “Stephen could prove you wrong.”

  “You know what? It doesn’t matter if he does. I’m done moping. I’ll let you close up now.” I zip up my hoodie and head for the door. “Night, sis.”

  “See ya.” Seph’s voice sounds odd, but I don’t look back.

  I’ve done enough of that shit lately.

  I watch Jett leave, then pull her glass closer, flicking my fingers at the door in a quickly whispered ward. Running a fingertip around the edge of the crystal until it sings, I smile and tap it three times, muttering Stephen’s name with every tap, along with dropping a pinch of margarita salt into the bottom of the glass. The dregs of tequila suck it up and kick it back in a puff of lavender smoke.

  There. Sleep well, bruin, I think smugly.

  “What’re you doing, princess?”

  I jump and curse. “Hasn’t anyone ever warned you about sneaking up on a witch who’s casting?”

  “You’re not casting.” He looks over my shoulder at the shot glass as I turn. “You’re meddling.”

  “Now, Jack, that’s not fair.”

  “Maybe not, but it is the truth.” He shakes his head, those frosty eyes softening. “You can’t help it, can you? I think it’s in your goddamn DNA.”