by Roh Morgon
Though my mind aches from the memories of being loved by him, of loving and losing him, the empty place in my core no longer does. It no longer remembers his presence, his essence, and I feel a fresh sadness at the loss of that heart-wrenching pain. Because at least that pain was a reminder of our connection, and its absence means all our connections are truly lost.
The sorrow drains from me, spent and lifeless. It’s been a long time since I gave in to those emotions—emotions that have been safely locked inside the black box where I store all of the memories that hurt too much.
But Taz, with his volatile moods, his masculine allure, his unexpected gift, has cracked open that box, and I suddenly feel weak and vulnerable at a time when I most need my strength.
Taking several deep breaths, I wipe away the bloodtears, scrub my hands against the dead brown grass, and prepare to face the new monster in my life.
CHAPTER 46
The roar of a departing motorcycle vibrates the windows as I finish washing my face in the bathroom. No one seems to be in the house, so I head through the kitchen to the garage and venture in.
The main garage door is open and Redd’s bike is gone. Taz, kneeling next to his, ignores me. He picks up a spray can and coats the front wheel with white foam, then stands and does the same to the back. Returning to the front with a rag in his hand, he crouches and starts wiping the rim between the spokes.
I move closer to watch, noting his meticulousness. The impatience he exhibits much of the time doesn’t seem to extend to his work. Rather, I wonder if being engaged in detailed tasks brings him a serenity he might otherwise find difficult to achieve.
He glances up at me, then grabs another rag and tosses it in my direction. I catch it and he waves his hand toward the rear wheel, which is held up off the floor by some sort of special stand.
“Since you’re just standing there…”
Unable to come up with a satisfying retort, I keep my mouth shut, kneel beside the tire, and start wiping.
“Be sure to get the spokes too.”
I grit my teeth and focus on my work. But instead of it calming me, I feel myself growing more irritated. Questions start pounding my head, and I blurt out the first one.
“Whose pickup is parked out back?”
“Mine.”
“Is that where you’re from? South Dakota?”
“Lived there a bit.”
Taz stands, watching me. Pretending not to see him, I scrub a little harder at a piece of grime, hoping he’ll find another spot on the bike to clean.
And then he’s squatting behind me, almost but not quite touching my back. I stiffen as his arm reaches alongside mine. His cool breath tickles my neck, sending electric tingles across my skin. He grabs the wheel and rotates it so the area blocked by the chain guard is now accessible.
His hand drifts to the floor, but he makes no other movement. I can only stare at it, at the long, surprisingly graceful fingers tipped with nails as sharp as my own. Tension coils and recoils in my chest, writhing like some poisonous snake.
His breath moves from my neck to linger on my hair. His hand clenches, the knuckles growing whiter and whiter.
And then he’s gone.
Where his hand rested on the cement are four bright drops of blood.
I pick up the next motorcycle magazine from the small pile I’d placed beside me on the couch. There’s nothing else out here in the common area of the house to read or do, and TV’s as ridiculous as always, especially on a big screen. And I’m not about to finish cleaning the bike. Even if I felt so inclined, which I don’t, I suspect that touching it without Taz’s permission would be as big a trespass as snooping in his bedroom.
Fleeting thoughts of escape continue to tantalize me, but each one withers beneath the possibility that he is out there, somewhere in the dark, waiting for me to make a move.
The kitchen door slams. Taz strides past me without a word and heads straight into the bathroom. He’s covered in blood and stinks of deer, which slaps awake my own hunger. After running the faucet for a few moments, he comes out of the bathroom, shirtless, only to disappear into his bedroom. He’s still tugging a clean T-shirt over his head when he walks back out. I catch myself staring and jerk my gaze back to the page in my lap.
“Redd said you needed clothes. Don’t know why you didn’t ask me,” he snarls as he tucks in his shirt.
I shrug, set the magazine aside, and stand to face him.
“I expected you to say no.” I thrust my chin in the air, daring him to deny it.
“So you thought to go behind my back? How old are you—thirteen?”
“Screw you. I’m tired of being—”
“What? Told what to do?” Taz brushes past me into the kitchen. “How’s this? Get your jacket. We’re leaving.” He opens the door to the garage.
“No.” To hell with him. I’m done with this.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you until you start treating me with a little respect. Which includes—”
Taz stalks back into the room, all steely calm on the outside. But I can almost feel what’s on the inside, and it suddenly scares me.
He shoves the dining room table to one side and flips back the area rug.
Beneath it is a trap door.
Pulling it up by a recessed handle, he gives me a hard stare. The black hole in the floor yawns like a hungry beast eager for its next meal.
Stark terror melts all traces of my resistance.
“Your choice. Go or stay.”
Shit.
Head held high, I grab my jacket and march to the garage.
When we pull into the motel and park next to the BMW, I’m not sure what surprises me more—that my car is here, and not in the twenty-four-hour parking lot where I’d left it, or that we are here.
Guess Taz wasn’t kidding when he said they’d been tracking me since my arrival in the city.
“How’d my car get here?”
“Chia lifted your keys outside the Cat Club.”
“On Halloween?”
He nods, that maddening smirk lighting up his face.
She must’ve brought it over that night before she and Redd came home.
I hadn’t even noticed my keys were missing. Not until last night, when we left for the biker bar and I discovered my pockets were empty.
Taz is right. I am so dumb.
I peek through the driver’s window as I pass, hoping Chia didn’t leave any spiteful mementos with her little dagger.
Taz fishes my motel key card from his pocket, opens the door, and follows me in. Stopping halfway across the room, the first thing I notice is a partially open drawer in the dresser. When I examine it further, it’s obvious someone’s been through my things.
“Is this your handiwork?”
“Not this time.”
I just look at him, dumbfounded, then start pulling out tops and socks and underwear.
“There’s not a lot of room on the bike, so pack light.” He walks over to a small garbage can, yanks out the plastic bag, and offers it to me.
A garbage bag? Really?
I snatch it from him and set it on the bed along with my pile, then grab a dark red turtleneck and duck into the bathroom to change. Slamming the door feels so good I want to do it again, but that would only invite further comparison to teenagers.
When I come out, Taz is standing by the bed, a pair of my black lacey underwear in his hand.
“Now who’s the thirteen-year-old?” I jerk the underwear away and drop them back on the bed. He smiles, not the least contrite.
But I catch a glint of embarrassment in his eyes, and it surprises me.
He acts like such a jerk, yet I’m beginning to suspect it’s just a front.
I check the dresser to see if there’s anything left that I can’t do without for now and look up into the mirror as Taz steps behind me. He slowly raises his hand and brushes the faint scar on my cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“How did you get these scars, and the ones on your back and arm?” His tone is softer than usual, matching the look in his eyes. He’s so close to me I can’t think, except to wonder what it might be like to…
No.
I duck away from him.
“I, uh…” Taking a deep breath, I try to overcome the confusion racing through me. “It was a bear.”
“A bear? A bear attacked you?”
“Sort of. It was pretty mutual. He tried to take something from me.”
“Like what?”
Might as well say it. I’m sure he’s already figured it out.
“My… my kill. A deer.”
His breath catches and I glance over to see him staring at the far wall.
“So…” He clears his throat as he looks back at me. “You attacked him?”
I nod.
Taz lets out a roar of laughter, the first genuine laugh I’ve heard from him.
“Why does that not surprise me?” He beams me a broad grin and shakes his head. “And what kind of scars did you leave him?”
“He’s dead.”
Taz’s amusement fades, his expression shifting to one of admiration.
“Now that might be worth a little respect.”
I pull open a dresser drawer, take out the bear claw necklace from Montana, and toss it across the room to him.
He snags it mid-air, then examines several claws and looks up at me, the question in his eyes.
“Yeah. That’s what I prefer to eat, but there aren’t many bears in this area.”
He frowns and throws it back to me.
“Bears are sacred.”
“Bears have caused me more heartache than you can imagine.” I think of the days before I tasted human blood—carefree and innocent when compared with now—and of Sandy, lying crushed against a rock. My fist tightens around the necklace as I put it away.
“Something I don’t understand.” His frown deepens. “Were you human when you fought the bear?”
“No.”
Well, partly. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“And yet you were left with scars.” Eyes narrowing, he takes a quiet breath. “Chosen don’t scar.”
Shrugging, I walk back over to the bed and finish packing the trash bag. I spin it to tie a knot in the end, but he takes the bag from me, then crushes it against his chest to squeeze out all the air.
I swallow and look away.
“What about the rest of my stuff? My room’s only paid up through Sunday.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of.” He knots the end of the bag.
“Until when?”
“Until you don’t need it no more.”
That’s reassuring. Does he mean the room or my stuff? The only way I wouldn’t need my stuff is if I’m dead.
“Any chance I can get my car keys or wallet?”
Taz shoves the bag at me and leans in, his lips just inches from my ear.
“Not a single one,” he whispers, then walks out the door.
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 47
As thrilled as I am to finally have clean clothes and toiletries of my own again, I can’t help but wonder just how long Taz intends to keep me here. When I broached the subject this evening shortly after he woke, his only response was, “Depends on you.”
My options seem pretty limited at the moment. I’ve thought about calling a taxi, grabbing my car, and getting the hell out of the area until I can figure out another approach. But because I stupidly left my jacket behind the other night to go hunting, I now have no cash or credit cards.
Though I have backup resources hidden in the BMW, getting to them could prove difficult, and would either involve stealing a car in Mill Valley or swimming across the Bay to San Francisco. I don’t feel quite that desperate yet. For now, I’ll continue to play Taz’s game.
My musings come to a halt at the sound of Chia’s bedroom door opening. She tends to wake up later than the guys, and I’ve wondered if she’s a lot younger than them in Chosen years as well as human.
Whatever her age, she sure doesn’t seem to like me, as evidenced by the scowl that creases her face when she spots me on the couch.
I decide maybe we just got off on the wrong foot that first night.
“If you’re looking for Redd, he and Taz are in the garage.”
“Like he’d be anyplace else?” She snorts, rolling her eyes like a pouty teenager, and continues toward the kitchen.
Setting down my book, I turn and face her over the back of the couch.
“Hey, look. I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you, but I’d like to start over.”
Chia stops and whirls back around, her tiny hands curling into fists.
“You wanna know what you’ve done?” she screams, her face twisting with fury. “You screwed up everything. We were all getting along just fine, just the three of us, until you decided to show up. Since the second you got into town, nothing’s been the same. We don’t hit the bars anymore, or bust heads like we used to, or party with the blood bags. I’m hungry all the time, and Taz…” Her shrill voice cracks. “All Taz does is follow your ass around like a damn dog. It’s been even worse since he brought you home. It disgusts me.”
By the time she’s done, Chia’s entire body is shaking, and bloodtears brimming in her hazel eyes only emphasize the crimson blazing from their pupils.
Taken aback by her outburst, I try to find the right words to say.
“Chia, I… I’m sorry—”
“Fuck. You. I don’t need your goddamn pity. I just want you gone. And if Taz is too pussy-whipped to do it, I’ll kill you myself. Only you won’t see me coming. Just one quick swipe of my blade and our problems are solved.”
And then she vanishes out the front door.
I slowly sink back down into the couch, stunned. Because what I saw in her eyes wasn’t just anger. What I saw was jealous rage.
She’s in love with Taz, and probably always has been. And the only time I’ve seen him acknowledge her existence was the night she nearly killed the biker.
Sadly, I think that was no accident.
She’s been gone about a half hour when Redd opens the front door and steps partway in.
“Evening, lass. We’re heading out for the night and need ye to come along.”
I grab my jacket, slip past him, and wait while he locks the door.
Redd’s silent during our walk to the garage.
Taz is sitting on his bike, dark glasses and helmet on, and obviously ready to go.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Taz says to Redd. He ignores me, other than to hold out my helmet.
“Just a few more minutes, bro. I don’t like leaving her behind, especially now.”
Taz just shakes his head.
The awkward silence weighs heavy in the air. They obviously heard Chia’s explosive rant. After several long moments, Taz rises from the seat and violently shoves his foot down on the kickstarter. The engine sputters in protest, and he stomps down again. This time it responds, its thunder exploding from the garage. He glances at me and jerks his head, and with a sigh, I climb on behind him.
Redd’s tight-lipped as he tugs his helmet on and straddles his bike, but then does nothing more.
The wheel beneath me suddenly spins for a split second before grabbing cement, and we shoot out of the bright garage and into the dark. Taz slows halfway up the driveway, his head slightly turned to one side. But no answering rumble breaks the silence behind us, and with a curse, he turns the throttle and we continue, though at a slower pace than before.
We reach the asphalt, and he pauses, then with another curse turns the bike onto the road. Our progress into town is a bit more leisurely than usual. Taz downshifts for the light at the freeway on-ramp.
Finally, in the distance behind us, the roar of a Harley rips through the nig
ht.
He pulls over at the base of the on-ramp, and within a minute, the orange bike flashes past, a tiny, leather-jacketed form tucked tight around Redd’s back.
We blast south down Highway 101 in the darkness, weaving in and out of traffic. I don’t know how fast we’re going—not sure I want to know. But it’s a lot faster than all the cars. At first I’m terrified, then slowly relax and marvel at how Taz and the metal monster beneath us function together as a single unit. I shift a little closer to him, concentrating on matching the subtle movements in his muscles as he leans the bike this way and that. I become part of the one and my fear of crashing dissipates.
The Golden Gate Bridge and the condensed traffic crossing it force us to slow our mad pace. A brief pause at the tollgate and we’re on our way again, albeit at a much slower rate. Crossing San Francisco is never quick, with its endless hills, stoplights, and congested streets, and this time is no different. I fight the claustrophobia closing in on me, that feeling of trapped panic that arises every time I enter a big city.
After an eternity of stop-and-go, we finally get on the 101 Freeway south and resume our headlong rush through the night. I have no idea where we are, other than someplace on the long peninsula between San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. I taste the strange combination of seaside scents and urban odors and, closing my eyes, let the vibrations from the motorcycle lull me into a semi-hypnotic state.
The pungent reek of jet fuel invades my nose, and I open my eyes as we take the off-ramp for the San Francisco International Airport. Working our way through the airport complex to the private jet area, we stop at a security booth where we’re asked to produce identification. Before I can say anything, Taz removes his sunglasses and hands over two ID cards. The guard’s glance at me confirms the second one is mine.
I reach out to take it, but Taz’s hand blocks mine, and the guard gives both IDs back to him.
Crap.
We continue on past parking lots and an array of different-sized hangars, our passage marked by the sudden brightness of motion-detecting spotlights.
