by Jax Garren
And fifty extra bucks a week? That was going to come in way handy. “Thanks,” she finally managed, her voice sounding too rough.
“Thank you. See you in Government, Glendabelle.” He put his hand on her back as she walked from the room, the touch friendly and comforting and burning a hole through her shirt.
Then, to top it all off, he shot her that killer grin from all the magazine spreads, winked, and shut the door.
She stared at the closed door for a moment, then realized that made her look like a weirdo. So she forced her feet to about-face and walked away, reluctant but still floating through the hallway as she breathed in fancy-ass condo air.
With everything spinning through her exhausted brain, one thought rose to the surface. I kissed Rafael Marquez. And he let me.
RAFAEL LEANED BACK against his door, feeling hella restless, and checked the time. Thirty minutes. He didn’t want to wait thirty minutes to see Freyja.
He peeled himself off the door and picked up coffee cups, straightening the condo. Every time Giselle talked like she wasn’t worth much, he wanted to hit someone. Not that it would do any good with his wussy-ass punching.
Maybe he should talk to his trainer about MMA cardio or something...
The water ran too hot, and he hissed in pain but didn’t change the temperature as he finished washing the cups. Giselle had told him she’d been thirteen when her mother died, sending her into the system. Freyja had been seven. Had Freyja ever lived in a group home—where the arsonists and rapists and kids “nobody wants” had to live? She didn’t come across as fragile like Giselle, but it helped him understand a little better why she didn’t ask for help. Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. Maybe she just didn’t think she was worth helping.
He clenched his fists at that rage-inducing thought. What he’d said to Giselle, he wanted to say to Freyja, but she would barely take a compliment from him. Giselle liked his music, so she’d listened. Or, he hoped she’d listened. She deserved better than this, too.
He pulled his phone out and texted, Still coming at 7?
Please, please, please.
Already here. About to nap.
His gaze flipped up to the door as his body went electric at the thought of her in a bed so close by. Change. Almost there.
He jabbed the side of his thumb against his stone and headed for the balcony.
But sleep!
I won’t stop you from sleeping.
But maybe he could sleep next to her.
Transforming to a raven, he flew to the balcony in front of the bed next door. A rush of power—her power—slid through him with the tingling ferocity of MDMA, and he closed his eyes briefly, bathing in it. A gauzy curtain hung behind the glass doors, giving him only a vague picture of her on her back on the bed. He let out a breath at seeing her safe. He hadn’t been that scared since... well, since seeing his dad and little sister in the hospital twelve years ago after the car accident, knowing Alicia wasn’t going to make it. Then neither of them did.
The world was really fucking unfair.
But unlike them, Freyja was okay, home and safe and waiting for him.
She sat up and pitched her helmet onto a chair, unbuckled and set aside her holster and belt, then peeled her armor over her head and tossed it aside as well, her gestures careless and sleepy and insanely cute as the bits of long hair not plaited around her face mussed into a warrior’s bedhead. Her right boot came off and went flying... somewhere, then her left in a different direction, and he grinned when she collapsed back onto the bed... but popped immediately back up to go hunt the shoes down and set them neatly beneath the chair with her helmet. After folding her byrnie and placing it in the chair—because everyone folded their chain mail—she grabbed her tunic like she’d pull it off too.
He’d seen her without it before, but maybe he shouldn’t be watching her undress like a Peeping Tom. Even if he really wanted to.
Stretching his neck to the side, he transformed back to human and softly called her name.
She gasped as she spun for the window. Her expression turned quickly to a smile. She sent him a jaunty salute, and then pulled her tunic off, fully knowing he was there.
Oh.... gods. It was better when she knew. As she folded that too, he dragged in a breath and managed to not moan it out. What he wouldn’t give to touch her right now.
With her usual efficiency, she slipped back the curtain and opened the glass door. “I was going to take a nap, but we can talk now.”
He took a step toward her, and her brows drew together just a bit as she stepped back. “I could use some sleep too,” he admitted, hoping his voice didn’t come out in a lust-starved rumble.
“Oh, well, uh...” she fumbled, backing up even more as he pressed forward. Her eyes darted to the bed, then back to him, expression wary as she licked her bottom lip
Fuck it. She could think whatever she wanted. He wagged a finger at her, angry and relieved and oh so full of longing. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
She stopped moving and shot him a challenging look. “Oh yeah?”
He took another step, putting them so close he could smell the scent of evergreen that clung to her skin. “Going to Kur without me. I was so worried, mi diosita.”
Instead of answering, she glanced at the bed again as her breathing picked up like sleep was not on her mind.
In a moment of insanity—because no doubt she could throw him on his ass—he bent down and tossed her over his shoulder.
“What are you doing, you crazy man?” she said, laughter in her voice as he carried her the few feet to the bed, yanked the sheets back, and dropped her onto the mattress. She landed on her back, hair strewn across the pillows and knee bent up like something out of a wet dream. But a hint of wariness had crept onto her face, giving him pause.
He forced himself to slow down as he slid onto the bed next to her, giving her plenty of time to leave. “I told you, I’m tired too.”
She turned to face him, staying close. “I thought this was a bad idea.”
He studied her beautiful jawline, the long line of her throat, the pale skin of her chest leading down to small breasts that would fit well in his hands. “I’ve decided you being out of my sight is a worse idea. God knows where you’ll go this time.”
She reached a hand between them, like she wanted to touch his face but for some reason wouldn’t just reach out. “I’m sorry.” Her blue eyes had hints of regret, and it gave him hope that things could be different. They could both change and be better people—for each other.
“You’re forgiven.”
She looked confused, or maybe disbelieving. “Just like that?”
He nodded. “Just like that.”
Her trembling hand brushed through the hair at his temple, and he nearly purred at the brief electric touch of her fingers. He took her hand and interlaced their fingers. “I’ll go if you ask, but please let me stay. We’ll just sleep. We deserve some sleep.”
She studied him for a moment longer, her eyes wide and lovely, and he wondered what she saw in him. Eventually she gave a nod so brief he wasn’t sure if it was real and squeezed his hand before dropping the connection to turn her back to him. Then she scooped the pillow close to her body, curling up with it the way he wanted to curl up next to her.
Because he had to try, he put his arm tentatively around her waist. “Is this all right?”
She was quiet for a moment, and he wondered if he’d pushed her too far. Then she said, “I would like that, but I don’t want you to think anything of it. It’s been a rough week, and I feel safer with you.”
“I feel safer with you too.” He clasped her more firmly, and to his surprise she sank back into him, the woman who was strung so tight she folded her chain mail and made lists from her lists relaxing against his body like she’d found peace. With him.
Chapter 25
“WE HAVE IMPORTANT THINGS to talk about. Why are we here?” Freyja whispered as Rafael parked his Harley in an a
lley that smelled of grilled meat and peppers.
He grinned at her, once again picturing how much he’d loved her messy hair spread across their pillows in the moonlight and the way she felt tucked up against him. He’d meant to nap for twenty minutes, but they’d woken up far later, when the sky was good and dark. It hadn’t taken much cajoling on his part to get her out into the city and into the south side of town. This time on one Harley instead of two.
They should probably get the other back tonight, but just for a little while, he liked only having one.
“Have you eaten dinner?” he asked.
“No, but I can wait. Is something going on?”
He knocked at the side door, where the staff entered his second cousin’s restaurant. “Yeah, epic Oaxacan food, and I can’t wait.” Mercedes poked her head out and did a double take. He gave her a wide smile, hoping she couldn’t recognize him, and she tentatively stepped into the alley. In Spanish, he said, “We hear your poblano mole is to die for, and we’re hungry. Mind if we come in?”
She held both pointer fingers in the air. “One moment. Let me get you a private spot.” She shot Freyja a look of deep gratitude and held her hand out. Freyja, seeming awfully confused, took it and let the woman kiss her on the cheek. “You are always welcome here, dear,” Mercedes told her in her lightly accented English before popping back inside.
“What are we doing? Is this a restaurant?” Freyja asked, shooting him an incredulous look. “Are we hanging out in public in our masks now? Are you crazy?”
He hummed as he thought through her list of questions. “We’re eating dinner. Yes, yes, and you just now noticed that?” At Freyja’s surprised huff, he rubbed her arm. “You saved her niece. She loves you.”
“I did?”
“Yeah. And she’s a really good cook. Like, better-than-my-abuela good—don’t tell Abuela. You’re liked around here by people who don’t see all conduits as equivalent to Macha. I think it’s good to be a little more public. Too many people think godpowers are all about death and government conspiracies and white people. But we’re down here helping, I’m not white, and we’re slowly changing people’s minds.” He hesitated before telling her the next reason.
“What?”
“And Huehuecoyotl really wants to.” The god was bored. “Kur was interesting, but not really his speed. He wants to hang out with people and party.”
Freyja gave him a look like he’d lost his ever-loving mind. “And when we get arrested?”
Rafael shrugged. “Eh, ‘a little party never killed nobody.’”
“When you’re getting advice from a former member of the Black Eyed Peas, you’re probably not making smart decisions.”
“I beg to differ, depending on which member you’re talking to.”
“Huh?”
Before he had to come up with a response, the door opened and Mercedes ushered them inside. “Don’t tell I let you in this way. I can’t give them any excuse to come in here.”
“By them she means the government,” Rafael clarified as they followed her through the kitchen and into the brightly lit restaurant with pink walls and linoleum tables. He leaned in, lowering his voice so Mercedes wouldn’t overhear. “Mercedes is a US citizen, but not everyone in here is likely to have that level of...”
“Conformity to legal standards?”
“Yeah. And if ICE gets nosy, they’re not always particular about legal standards either.”
An old Flaco Jiménez hit played over excellent speakers, reminding him of weekends with the hands on his family ranch, as Mercedes showed them to a table partially blocked from the restaurant by a potted palm. Rafael pulled out Freyja’s seat, which made her laugh, even though she kept looking around for trouble, then he set his drum down beside the table before taking his own seat.
Freyja turned back to him thoughtfully. “This issue—immigration—seems important to you. Is your family—”
He snorted, cutting her off before one more person verbally assumed all brown people were first or second generation. “I’m Tejano.”
She got still as her face turned pink. “I thought that was a kind of music?”
He knew he shouldn’t laugh, but he did. “I’m sorry.” He held his hand out in a friendly fashion as he pulled the laughter back in. “Yeah, it’s a type of music.”
“But it also means?”
“That your family’s old Texas. I’m descended from Spanish colonists who moved to this area in the 1700s, when it was still Spain. Of course, parts of my family tree got here a few thousand years before that.”
She nodded, eyes wide like she was worried she’d offended him. “My mom, Bryn, was—is, wow—an immigrant from Iceland. I have no idea when Sofia’s family got here.”
Realizing he was being prickly, he reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Sorry. You didn’t do anything. A lifetime of proprietary commentary from people with a lot shorter heritage here grates on you after a while.” He said this wryly and with a wink to try and dull the acid behind his statement.
Then he kept talking, long-brewing frustration coming out with nearly a howl, like Huehue was egging him on. He normally didn’t talk like this, but... “What bothers me is how many people don’t like that Macha’s setting fire to towns, but they’re not going to do anything about it as long as she stays close to the border. It’s not really about immigration. If it was, I’d never get treated the same as an illegal immigrant, but unless I’m flaunting my bankroll, I do. It’s not valuing tradition, because if it was, my family would never be told to give up our language, music, holidays, or religion when mine are older and more established—more traditional—here. But when’s the last time you heard somebody say German communities should quit learning German or celebrating Oktoberfest? Never. Macha’s exploiting that most people will cluck their tongues and shake their heads but won’t get too riled up as long as the dead people look like me. And some people? They’re going to celebrate it.”
Freyja twisted her hand until she could slide her fingers between his. “Then why’d you help me rescue her?”
He looked at their intertwined fingers, then into her eyes. “I didn’t. I went to Kur to rescue you.”
Salsa and a bowl of chips landed on their table. “You need time or...?” Mercedes asked.
Freyja blushed bright red, pulled her hand away, and wouldn’t look at him as she carefully said, “Mole poblano con pollo, por favor. Y agua. Gracias.” Chicken with poblano sauce and a water. Her accent was pretty good, even if the words sounded rusty, and he wondered if she’d ever been fostered in a Spanish-speaking home. She managed a tiny flicker of a glance his way before burying her face back in her menu. “¿Dijiste el poblano, sí?”
His heart tightened at her attempt to show support, even when he wasn’t being “nice” about everything—he kinda loved her right now—and he answered in English. “Yeah, I said the red.” He turned his smile up to Mercedes, who was trying not to giggle behind her notepad, and pointed at the special, written in chalk above the bar. “Chichilo venado, por favor, y dos micheladas.” It was definitely his lucky day if Mercedes had made her venison with mole chichilo, a rich and spicy broth-based sauce. The family joked that the real reason Esteban had come back from Tehuantepec married was so he could have it for his birthday every year.
“Coming right up,” she responded in English, voice full of suppressed laughter. She managed a straight face as she patted Freyja’s shoulder. “Your Spanish is wonderful!”
Freyja wrinkled her nose at the woman’s retreat. “Liar.”
“You did great. She loved it.”
The disbelieving look turned to him. “Did you order two drinks?”
“Yeah. You ever had a michelada?”
She leaned in close, voice low. “No. And I’m not twenty-one yet.”
He looked her over again, a terrifying thought crossing his mind. She looked his age, but under the mask... “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.” She grinned misch
ievously. “Suddenly worried you’ve been hitting on a high schooler?”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “I met you on a college campus and just assumed... but I should’ve asked.”
“How old are you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Old enough to buy a drink, but not by much.”
Her expression softened a bit, almost wistfully. “I’m not looking you up, you know. We agreed.” She fiddled with her napkin, then put it in her lap. “I feel like I don’t know anything about you.”
He frowned, not sure how she could feel that way. “I talk about myself all the time. I feel like I don’t know anything about you.”
She frowned back at him. “You know, like, everything about me—where I was born, that I’ve been in state custody since I was seven. Hell, you spent the night with my mother.”
“But none of that is about you.” She looked at him like he wasn’t making sense. “That’s about your family. I told you about rolling barbed wire with the hands and drinking soda with my grandfather—why does it matter what his name is? That’s about him, not me.” She scooped up a chip, brow scrunched like she was thinking about what he said. “I want to know about you—not like, statistics and a fact sheet. Stories.”
She shook her head. “I don’t have interesting stories like those.”
“I have a hard time believing that.”
She wrinkled her nose, her shoulders stiffening. “Yeah, yeah. Foster kids always have stories about violence and crazy shit.”
Dammit, first with Giselle and now with Freyja, he kept stepping in it tonight. “I didn’t mean... I mean, you don’t have to talk about that stuff if you don’t want to. But everybody’s got stories—funny ones or stupid shit you did or whatever.”
“I’m not a very good storyteller.”
He gently kicked her foot under the table, and she looked at him as she nibbled on another chip. “Try me sometime. I’m dying for Freyja stories. I bet I’ll find your life more interesting than you think.” She held his gaze for a moment longer, like she was considering his words. As a concession, he admitted, “I’m twenty-one.”
