Quicksilver Dreams (Dreamwalkers)

by Adele, Danube

  About halfway home, my heart quit thundering, and though I’d replayed the scene a thousand times in my head, I still wasn’t sure what had happened. First, there was the...oooookay, could I admit it? I heard a voice. In my head. But did I really? Just thinking it felt cuckoo. Maybe I was just tired and overly stressed. That could be the case. Maybe Cynthia was right about the side effects of overworking myself and needing to cut back on hours to relax some, but I truly needed both jobs.

  Could I have heard a voice?

  In less than a second, my own mind scoffed at me. My inner adolescent smirked rudely, and I was forced to admit that it was just too crazy to be believed.

  Pulling up in front of my apartment complex, I managed to convince myself that I’d probably imagined the whole “he’s going to kill me” moment, because really, who does that? Things like that only happen in movies, right? The real situation was more likely that he thought I was an intruder because Reggie didn’t call in advance and warn him that I was coming over right away. I should have stayed and introduced myself so the guy wouldn’t think I was a thief. End of story.

  At this point, I was feeling pretty stupid. Here was another episode to chalk up to my extremely overactive imagination, which was seriously starting to worry me. Added to that, the glint of metal caught my eye, and I realized I was still wearing the ring on my finger.

  Figures. I really had stolen something from the house.

  “Damn.” The word was muttered with no small degree of self-disgust. Yanking the ring off my finger, I set the piece of metal in the unused ashtray and flipped it shut with a snap.

  What’s done is done.

  I shoved my way out of the car, slinging my purse over my shoulder gracelessly.

  I just needed the day to end. I needed sleep. I needed food. I needed weird and strange to leave me the hell alone, so I could hit the reset button and let my life go back to its normal, predictable schedule. I liked normal. I wasn’t adventurous. I didn’t like surprises.

  In a reassuring voice as I made my way to the gate, I told myself, “Everything’s fine. I’ll just return it on Monday, and next time Reggie needs an errand, I’ll stay at work and send one of the interns. I’ll just make sure I apologize profusely and throw myself on his mercy.”

  Hearing my voice speaking calmly was comforting, though I couldn’t fool myself. I’ve never known Reggie to be merciful. I would likely need to start looking for a new job immediately, since I’d probably managed to freak his boyfriend out. The security gate was propped open again, and I was sure it was the guys from downstairs just being lazy about buzzing their friends in, so I shoved the brick that was holding it open out of the way. Just the act of doing something so normal led me to feeling marginally better. No way should the rest of us be in danger because of those beer-guzzling wannabe frat boys whose train long ago left the station of age-appropriate behavior.

  I’ve had my fill of being smirked at and ogled by the gut-growing, hair-receding juvenile thirty-five-year-olds that live in the apartment under me (and trust me when I tell you they’ve made many jokes about the positioning of our apartments). I gain a secret source of pleasure in thwarting their joys.

  Just as the gate was closing with a satisfying clang, I turned to head for my apartment and ran smack into a hard, muscular, T-shirt-clad chest with a sound that was something like “Oomph.” Large rough hands gripped my arms, as though to steady me, and I looked all the way up into the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. Veins of gold jumped out from their depths, and I found myself mesmerized.

  Wow. Such beautiful eyes.

  It was all I could think until I realized I was staring. At the same time, I also realized he was still holding my arms, and that my hands had come to rest on his hard pecs during our mild collision. And they were nice pecs. Really, really nice. His eyes did a sharp inventory south of my neck, and I was suddenly glad I had some decent cleavage. Then they lingered on my lips a brief moment before returning to my face. Desire teased me delicately, spreading warm tingles through my stomach, before I came to my senses.

  “Jeez. I’m sorry,” I sputtered, pushing back a few steps, though at this point I still couldn’t look away from his compelling, pale green eyes. They jumped out at me, set off by his black hair and sun-bronzed skin.

  He had one of those square jaws that razor commercials love to use for advertising. Tough. Masculine. Definitely not a pretty boy, but super sexy. And he smelled good too. His scent baited me, but I was locked on the shock value of his eyes. Talk about a commanding presence.

  “You okay?” his deep voice rumbled, not even a trace of a smile evident. If anything, he was giving me this sort of steely-eyed gaze. His eyes were lasered in on me like they were analyzing me, able to hear what I was thinking. I felt myself blush at the thought. Silly. Of course he couldn’t hear me.

  I realized he was waiting for me to say something, which flustered me because I couldn’t think of what he’d asked. Christ, I needed to stop staring at his eyes and keep up with the program. What was wrong with me?

  Instead, I took a deep breath and asked my own question. “Are you moving in to 8D?”

  “I did. Day before yesterday.”

  “Then we’ll be neighbors.” I smiled, sticking my hand out. “My name’s Taylor Lane.”

  “Ryder,” he replied, and he shook my hand with his rough, calloused one.

  My hand disappeared inside his, and I swear a ripple of sensation went up my arm, giving me goose bumps the moment we touched. No kidding. It was so surprising, I sort of gasped. I went with my first instinct and snatched my hand back with an overly bright smile to cover my discomfort at feeling out of control. I couldn’t hide the flush that crept up my neck.

  He scowled. I didn’t pay attention. Today had been just too weird already. For my own sanity, I needed the comfort of my sofa, some bad reality TV and maybe even a short nap. Everything always felt better after a nap.

  “See you around, neighbor. Let me know if you need anything.” I did a quick retreat and made it to my apartment without encountering anyone else.

  Chapter Two

  “You ran? A gorgeous, muscular guy that gets you all hot and bothered is talking to you, and your next move is to run? Why do I bother?” Cynthia scowled at me and grabbed a bottle of water from our fridge. Taking the cap off, she took a deep swish, having just come across town through the hot sludge of traffic.

  “Maybe you should go for him. He’s tall.”

  “Yeah, right. My best friend tells me how he makes her heart flutter and then tells me with this martyred look that I should go for him? Get real.”

  “No, really...”

  “I’m waiting for Shep, remember?”

  “Mr. Grunge. You’re too classy for him.”

  “So maybe I’ll lower my standards for a night.”

  “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

  “You’re probably right. You look ready for work.” She gave me a once-over.

  I’d exchanged my pastel blue pencil skirt and cute, sleeveless fitted blouse with tiny ruffles at the neck (cost me more than I like to remember, but it was worth it) for my standard-issue black mini and black tank, with a cheap, fitted cotton button-up that I tie the tails of around my waist. I wear black strappy heels that have a slight platform, giving me added height and making my legs look miles long.

  I’m a bartender, not a waitress. I’ve been working at the club, Johnny’s Spot, long enough that I finally got off the floor and behind the bar. It has saved me some black-and-blue pinch marks on my ass, I can tell you that.

  “You coming to the club?”

  “Maybe for a little while.”

  “I’ll tell Charlie to expect you.” He was the doorman. I’m pretty sure he had a crush on Cynthia, a side effect of which is that he goes from being this total tough-looking brute to b
eing a stuttering dolt when she’s around, though he won’t admit it. Not even to me, and we’re pretty tight. He probably knows it’s never going to happen, so in the long run, he’s saving himself a lot of grief.

  He’s a good guy, though. I can count on him to look out for me and eject the drunken rowdies that ruin everyone’s good buzz.

  “You kind of brushed off the whole Frank episode. Are you sure you were just imagining things? I haven’t known you to be jumpy or paranoid.”

  “Yeah. I think I probably freaked him out more than anything. Imagine if you thought you were alone in the house and you heard noises or saw someone moving around who didn’t belong there. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I feel stupid for running, so I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  “All right, then.”

  I didn’t have to leave for work for a little while and managed to watch some bad reality TV with Cyn at the same time that I kept an ear tuned for movement next door. I was getting a charge thinking that the wall we shared with Ryder was my bedroom wall. And if the layout of his apartment was at all like ours, then the other side of my bedroom wall was his bedroom. Maybe. Like it mattered.

  I could already feel myself withdrawing, because honestly, I’m really uncomfortable with anyone who could maybe potentially fuck me up. I joke about needing therapy, but the truth is, I know what’s wrong with me. Every adult who was supposed to take care of me blew me off like I didn’t matter and it hurt a lot, the result of which was that I learned that I just needed to take care of myself. What that means, to me, is making sure not to be emotionally invested in anyone because they get power over me that way. Period. I stopped giving up my power a long time ago.

  Johnny’s Spot was quiet when I arrived, and I began working my chores behind the bar. Lemons needed to be sliced and various bottled and canned fruits—cherries and pineapples, specifically—needed to be stocked in the easy-access dispenser behind the bar for the more froufrou drinks that customers liked to order. I made sure menus were clean and the bar was wiped down. I did a quick sweepup behind the bar and wiped down visible bottles and shelves with a moist rag. I checked levels on the bottles of alcohol and the different mixes I would need, reporting what was low to Johnny himself.

  He was a quirky little guy, about my height, not much more than my weight, with unremarkable features: gray hair, lots of wrinkles and squinty eyes that he swore could still see twenty-twenty.

  What was remarkable about him was that he was thin and wiry, yet spooky strong and tough sounding, like he’d smoked several packs a day his whole life. His deep, raspy voice did not match his slight appearance, kind of like Popeye. He also had the energy level of a twenty-year-old, not that any of us really knew his age. There was actually a bet among the employees about this. It was open-ended, because Johnny knew about it and was not forthcoming with the information. Some were guessing he was in his fifties, while others had racked up the span of years to his nineties, which I thought was a little over-the-top. I assumed he was in his late sixties or so.

  Johnny’s Spot was an extremely successful club, but Johnny still liked being in on all the day-to-day transactions. “I don’t trust no one to handle my money, doll,” he answered when I asked him about taking the time for himself that he’d so richly earned. “I put all my cash into this place, and when you do something like that, you keep a good eye. I don’t trust any of you, and that’s not personal, it’s flat-out smart. It ain’t your money holding the place up. If you ever get a place o’ your own, don’t let no one else manage it, or they’ll manage you right into the can!” He’d given this piece of advice so many times, I’m sure we all had it memorized.

  I started my shift expecting the usual uneventful chaos, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  “Two margaritas, a stout and a Jamaican lager.”

  “Two Mexican beers, sex on the beach, fuzzy navel and a Seven and Seven.”

  “Three shots of tequila, two more Mexican beers and an apple martini.”

  I fell into the rhythm of a typical Friday night. I kept the alcohol flowing, sidestepped drunken come-ons and kept the chips and pretzel baskets full at my end of the bar.

  The music got louder, the dance floor had a steady stream of participants and people had to yell to be heard above the music, making intelligent conversation impossible. Not that people were here for anything other than hooking up. It was a meat market at its lowest, though it kept from being a dive bar by playing live music on Friday and Saturday nights and by running sports of all kinds on the different TV screens around the bar.

  At a distance, I caught sight of Cynthia making her way through the sea of people. She looked predictably gorgeous in a sexy slip of a pale blue dress that reached midthigh and outlined her shapely bod. Her blond hair was long and straight, reaching the middle of her back, and it was like she was the new swimsuit cover model the way eyes were watching her progress across the room, but then I saw the look on her face.

  She was pissed off.

  I noticed a big blond Adonis wearing a nice white button-up shirt following behind her, grabbing at her arm to stop her from walking away. She spun around to confront the guy, and then I couldn’t see any more because a large body cut off my view.

  “Marry me, Taylor.” I recognized the Mr. Vodka–Cranberry Juice slur that was coming across the bar as I did a quick swipe with my moist towel and tried to see around him to whom Cynthia was talking to. I was sure I’d never seen him before, because I would definitely have remembered that guy, as hot as he was. She was standing there, listening to the guy, with body language that told me quite clearly she knew him.

  Wasn’t this an interesting development? We were going to have a lot to talk about later on, when we got home.

  “Be careful, Chuck,” I finally responded, and I washed some of the glasses that were piling up in my station. “I just might take you up on that offer one of these days.” He was wasted and it wasn’t even ten o’clock, his brown hair looking as though he’d been running his fingers through it, his teddy-bear eyes looking squinty. He usually didn’t propose until well after midnight on nights he came to the club. It made me wonder if something bad had happened.

  “Taylor, honey, I would be so good to you. You could be my queen.” To accompany his slow speech, he gave me a little-boy grin that likely worked way back in his day on coeds in college, but now only emphasized the beginning of his double chin. Week after week, he reeked of desperation, unable to maintain his fit body with the amount of alcohol he consumed. He was finding it harder and harder to attract the same girls who used to vie for his attention when he was twenty pounds lighter on his college football team. I know all of this because during his various drinking binges (yes, he’s an ex-frat boy turned alcoholic—surprised?), he shared his stories. More than once.

  “Be good to yourself, Chuck.” I stacked the newly washed glasses on a rack to dry. “Drink some water.”

  “Ouch.” He clasped his chest, pretending to be in pain. “You’re a cold-hearted woman, Taylor.”

  “Back off, Chuck. She’s my property,” Cynthia growled mockingly, pushing her way up to the bar. I automatically poured a glass of water, popped a lemon wedge in it and slid it across the wood bar to her.

  Cynthia doesn’t drink. She’s never told me the specifics, other than to say she’s allergic.

  With a quick nod of thanks, she took the glass and sipped it, trying not to look like she was watching for someone, though I could see that she was definitely watching for someone. The blond stud muffin, perhaps? Now didn’t seem like a good time to ask. She was doing a two-faced thing where she was trying to look all casual, but at the same time seemed to be fuming about something.

  “You guys are a couple?” Chuck was enjoying that little fantasy. “Oh, God. Two hot chicks. I’d love to see that.”

  “You’ll have to use your imaginatio
n.” I smirked.

  “All right, all right. Goin’ home. While I still got one,” he muttered.

  “Can I call you a cab, Chuck?”

  “Naw. Just gonna walk. Not far.” He dumped a wad of cash into the tip jar and made his way unsteadily toward the front door.

  While following his progress across the crowded bar, I caught sight of Ryder and froze. Our eyes met and held. Instantly, my breathing went shallow, and my heart pounded faster. I felt the familiar flash of heat curling through my abdomen.

  He was leaning back against the wall with his thick, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, half-immersed in shadow. He was watching me with that fierce look, and it was like his energy reached out to me. Seemingly half-wild, with a lock of black hair falling across his forehead, he was in beat-up jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched across impressive pecs, which I absolutely remembered.

  His eyes blazed a path across the room that felt like a physical touch.

  That man was dangerous.

  Moving bodies cut off my view of him, and I strained to look around them, but by the time I could see that piece of wall again, he was gone. I looked around the club and didn’t see him. I figured he must have left, since I couldn’t find a trace of him, but I still felt like he was watching me.

  It took a while for my body to normalize again.

  Shep was getting ready to go on the small platform stage by the dance floor, but he spotted us at the bar and came over to say hi. He’d always been a ladies’ man, but he had a thing for Cynthia in particular when he was sober and discriminating. Cynthia was sitting there looking like the next best thing to an ice-cream cone, so he put an arm around her shoulder and asked how she’d been doing. Here’s how that went:

  “I’ve been great, but I’ve missed seeing you around,” she purred in this ultrasexy voice, her eyes looking all smiley and sleepy at the same time, and Shep’s cheeks went flush instantly. I could almost hear his erection ping to attention. (I’d never seen her turn on this vamp side. It was totally lethal. I would kill for a cheat sheet.)