by J. R. Ward
G.B. broke off and paced around in a tight circle. “You were smart. But for fuck’s sake, that never should have happened.”
“Well, it’s an iffy part of town.”
“I’m talking about the ticket. I gave it to—” He stopped and blew out a curse. “I just … you should have been here, with me. Not out in the dark, getting mauled by God only knows who. Come here.”
With a quick shift, he pulled her into his body and held her, dropping his head into her hair and running his hand up and down her back. “I should have been there to protect you.”
“Breathe deeply, feel the breath going in and out of your nose, down the back of your throat, expanding your lungs…”
Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.
The demon Devina had her ass in the air, her hands and feet planted on a smelly purple mat, her hair and her double Ds in her face—and that seventy-pound Rubbermaid dumb bitch in the front of the class wanted her to breathe?
“Feel the strength in your body, but also look for the areas that can relax in the pose. Breathe. Let go in your stomach and…”
Areas of relaxation? Yeah, right. Her hamstrings felt like they were being stripped off her bones; she had so much blood in her head, her eyes were bulging; and her arms were trembling as they attempted to keep holding her in this insane, unnatural position.
Her earlobes were at ease.
Actually, only the left one was.
Downward dog? Shit, she should remember this when she had to work someone over in Hell. She’d rather have somebody come at her with a knife.
“And release into child’s pose.”
Thank fuck.
As Devina collapsed onto the mat and fell forward over her bent legs, she hated everything about the hot-yoga experience. The sweat. The cramping. The cloying stink—was that incense really necessary? Come on, this wasn’t a Catholic church.
“And now we will have our relaxation. Please lie on your back and find a comfortable position for your arms. You may do arms out or down by your sides, or even over your head. Whatever you prefer.”
At the moment, she would prefer her hands around that woman’s throat, squeezing until the teacher turned cardiac-arrest blue.
“Breathe. Close your eyes. Focus on relaxing your toes … your feet … your…”
Screw you, lady.
In a show of rebellion, Devina kept her peepers open for the sole reason that she was tired of being bossed around by that pipe cleaner-like chick.
As that annoying, pseudo-soothing voice droned on, the vocabulary working its way up the body, Devina just hung out and waited for the BS to be over. Whatever. She could have left, but she was a perverse motherfucker and kind of enjoyed getting all riled up by a silly human she could kill on a whim.
Then again, she had something pleasant to turn her attention to.
She had spent the night in Jim Heron’s arms.
Salt ’N’ Pepa old-school said it right: Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man, whatta mighty good man …
Now, it had sucked that she’d had to clothe herself in the skin of someone else—most particularly that stupid virgin—but the fact was, Devina was so used to being other people, it hadn’t been any real barrier to the bliss. Besides, the idea that she had thwarted Jim’s never-again had more than sustained her.
She’d wanted sex, of course—that wouldn’t have rung true, however.
Not on their first night together.
The way she looked at it? It was an acting challenge. She’d had to reach deep and try to behave as that Barten thing would, all the while subtly, and inexorably, starting to seduce him. Big fun, and it had really put a spark in things—she could totally see why relationship experts touted role-play as a way to spice up a couple’s love life.
This was just what the pair of them needed.
Plus, it gave her something to focus on as she was forced to follow the rules in the game—okay, well, mostly color within the lines of the war: She’d had to scare that artist last night in the parking garage—it was important to keep the woman headed in the direction she’d voluntarily gone in at the end of the evening.
Just a nudge. Nothing obvious.
And hey, demons were allowed to be in public places. It wasn’t her fault that the woman freaked out and called the cops from a locked elevator, then bolted for home … and ended up in the arms of a very hot lover.
Okay, okay, fine, she’d also caused Jim’s little “accident” in his truck.
Black cats were sometimes not really cats.
But come on, that had been personal, not anything to do with the larger fight between good and evil. She’d just been so bitched that he was all focused on and lovey-dovey supportive with the virgin that she hadn’t been able to help herself—
The yoga instructor popped into her visual field, that clueless, perma-happy, I’m-regular-’cuz-I-eat-organic expression making Devina want to force-feed her Hershey bars until she died from hyperglycemia. “Relax your eyelids. Find your inner peace. Breathe…”
Devina closed her eyes just so she didn’t do something that required a Shop-Vac to clean up—
Another interruption abruptly cut into her “relaxation” time—but it was not her phone going off or a tap on the shoulder or more cocksucking advice on the inhale/exhale thing.
Frowning, she sat up, and broke the horizontal covenant; the summoning was just such a surprise. Fortunately, the teacher picked that moment to call game-over, telling people to settle on their butts with their legs crossed, and do some sort of palm-togethering thing.
Devina waited through that bullshit, because she wanted to keep the male who had called out to her guessing for a little bit: A smart woman knew that men liked the chase, and that was the same whether they were human … or angel.
Finally the class broke up, people getting to their feet and chatting among themselves—probably about the buzz that came from mainlining smoothies made from cow flops and carrot juice.
Quelle delish.
Devina cut through them with the efficiency of a New Yorker on a sidewalk, dodging around as she made for the wall of cubbies by the door of the studio. Everyone else had Merrells or sandals. She popped her Louboutins back on her bare feet and got the hell out of there.
When she slid into her Mercedes, she shut the door and was momentarily derailed by the lack of hood ornament. Even though the thing had been sacrificed for the best possible reason, her OCD blew up its absence into a national emergency.
“You called the dealership,” she told herself. “You put the order in. Tuesday. You just have to make it to Tuesday…”
She felt like she’d lost a leg—and only half of her knew that wasn’t the case.
Then again, running at only fifty percent psychotic was an improvement. Before she’d started going to her therapist? She’d have either thrown the car out on the street, or she’d have gone to Caldwell Mercedes and forced them at gunpoint to remove someone else’s thingy and put it on her own fucking hood.
See. Progress.
Starting up her engine, she hit the gas to get out of the lot before the exit was blocked either by beaters held together with Free Tibet bumper stickers or Priuses with clean-energy logos all over them. As she headed across town, the summoning signal remained strong, and that was good. It meant she’d have enough time for a proper cleanup.
Just another delay, letting him stew in his juices.
When she got to her HQ, she went down to the lower floor and breathed out a sigh of relief to find everything in its place again. Ditching the yoga pants and skin-tight sports top into the trash, she headed for her bathroom—and once again felt trapped between her desire for marble and a Jacuzzi and multiple showerheads … and the reality that she didn’t trust anyone to work down here among her things.
Her rule was a simple one: Move in and stay put as long as she could.
Goddamn Jim. If only he hadn’t found where she’d been hiding out before this.
Great water
pressure in those pipes. And Carrara everywhere.
As it was, she was stuck with a relatively anemic spray, white clinical tile, and a urinal next to the sink.
No wonder she’d been so desperate for a hotel stay.
But the good news was, the water was hot, and the soap was her favorite from Fragonard—apricot and clementine. Getting out, she grabbed one of her Porthault towels and wound her hair up tight; then she wrapped a second one around her body.
Given her imminent get-together, she waltzed over to her wardrobe and chose carefully. Short, tight skirt from Louis Vuitton’s resort collection. A Missoni blouse that was a second skin with plenty of downward draft. No hose, no bra, no panties. Same pair of Loubous she’d worn to yoga.
Devina laid everything out on her big bed, and then went to do hair and makeup at her vanity. She took her time … and still that summons hung on.
Must be important, and how delicious was that? About time she was paid some proper respect.
Dressed and ready to go, she went over to her mirror and stepped through. After a whirl of transportation, she stood at the base of her well, staring up at the viscous walls and the groaning, restless masses trapped within them.
Straightening her skirt and smoothing her hair, she went over to her stained and battered worktable … and called the angel Adrian down to her.
As he appeared before her, he was just as big as he had always been, his shoulders the kind of thing that offered plenty of acreage to claw at, his heavy arms as thick and muscled under his T-shirt as a prizefighter’s, his hips anchoring a cock that she knew well, and had missed.
The best part? He was icy-cold angry, his good eye and his milky one both narrowed and spitting out hatred, his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
Ohhhhh, yeah. After a night of lying chastely with Jim, she was sexually frustrated in the extreme. This was just what she needed to tame the burn down.
“Why, hello,” she drawled with a smile. “Pining for me again?”
Chapter
Twenty-five
“This is … incredible.”
Cait actually had to look over at the plastic box her sandwich had come in. “I mean, I really can’t believe this came out of a vending machine and was—”
“Premade, right?” G.B. sat down across the little stainless-steel table and nodded. “It defies the laws of cold storage.”
“I feel like it should be served in a fancy restaurant.” She wiped her mouth with her paper napkin. “I didn’t have a lot of hope, to be honest.”
“I will never steer you wrong.” G.B. peeled off the aluminum top of his. “I got the ham—what did you choose again?”
“Turkey. I didn’t want to gamble with all the mayonnaise on the chicken salad—but after this? I probably would. I think this is real chutney in here.” She turned her sandwich his way. “Really.”
G.B. nodded as he bit into his own. “Almost all of the cast went out to eat, but that’s a little rich for my blood—besides, with this? Why bother.” While chewing, he cracked open a little bag of Cape Cod potato chips. “Share these with me?”
Cait shook her head and put her hand in front of her mouth. “I watch my weight.”
He rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re perfect.”
“I don’t know about that—and I’m not psycho or anything, just a little dusting around the edges, as I call it. No snacking, no extras like rolls or chips or cookies, and I’m careful on the alcohol and the soda. A little gym time and I do okay.”
She was chattering on about nothing, mostly because she still felt awkward from that embrace onstage—for no good reason. He’d been so wonderful, hugging her close, doing that male thing that made you feel like someone had your back. And afterward? He’d made a real effort to be charming and a little silly, as if he knew she needed that to pull out of her mood—
Ah, hell … it wasn’t about the embracing.
She was going out with Duke again tonight.
That was the problem.
“Is there a sketch pad in there?” he asked, nodding to the vacant chair next to her.
She glanced down at her big purse. “Yup. It may be a cliché, but I take one with me everywhere.”
“Makes sense. I’m the same way—I have a lyric notebook. I keep it in my bag always—sleep with it, too. My friends who aren’t in the biz think I’m crazy—I’m always taking it out, scribbling, toying with words.”
“Been there, done that, except it’s pictures for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by accountants and lawyers—it’s nice to be with someone who gets it.”
“Simpatico,” he said with a smile.
As they chatted along, they were alone in the square room, sitting among the vending machines, a coffeemaker and a refrigerator with a PT STAFF ONLY (THIS MEANS YOU, CHUCK) sign on its door. The three other tables were empty, although the smell of fresh java and popcorn lingered in the air as if someone had used things very recently.
“So, being in Rent’s a pretty big deal,” she said.
“Yeah, I mean, this isn’t Broadway, but I’m happy to have steady work for about eight weeks. And it’ll be the first time I’m onstage doing any acting along with the singing. I’m pretty pumped about that.”
“How long do you rehearse for?”
“The next two weeks straight, till about six at night. Which is good, because I can keep my gig schedule.” He finished off his sandwich and the chips. “I dunno, I’m getting tired of the multitasking, keeping all these balls in the air.”
“I know what that feels like. Before I got my teaching position? I was working four different jobs as I submitted illustrations for projects, did my own artwork, and generally prayed that I’d be able to keep a roof over my head.”
He eased back, his handsome face relaxed, his beautiful hands wiping themselves on a napkin. “So, you don’t have parental help?”
Cait laughed. “Absolutely not. My mom and dad don’t come from anything, and any extra money goes to the church.”
“Religious types?”
“Like you read about—literally.”
“So you’re not close to them.”
She wiped her own palms, and then tucked the wad of napkin into her empty, sandwich-shaped container. “Yes and no. I mean, they’re still my parents, you know? So I love them. They’re just hard to talk to about anything other than their beliefs—and they leave the country a lot to go on missionary trips. So that’s kind of isolating. Plus there’s some residual damage.”
He frowned. “From what.”
“Just all the rhetoric. It’s in my head, and even though I’m an adult and I live a thousand miles away from them, sometimes their judgments are just … all I can hear. And it’s not supportive stuff, if you get my drift.”
“You seem like the sort of daughter anyone would be proud of.”
Cait stared into his steady, kind eyes, and flushed at the compliment. Changing the subject, because she couldn’t handle the approval, she said, “You’re a good listener, anybody ever tell you that?”
“Maybe. But the fact that you think I am? Means something to me.”
“We’re back to the charm thing again, are we?”
G.B. winked at her. “Is it working?”
“Maybe.” She glanced away. “What about you? What’s your story?”
“Sad one, I’m afraid.” At this, he gathered the trash and got up, crossing over and pitching the remnants of their lunch into a thigh-high trash bin. “No clue who my father was and Mom died in childbirth. I was raised in an orphanage, and I made it out of there with a high school diploma. After that? I went to college on a scholarship, and have worked at any opportunity that has come my way ever since.”
“You’ve been on your own for a long time.”
“Taught me a lot. And you know what they say: That which doesn’t kill you gives you material for songs.”
“Still, that must have been a hard way to grow up.”
&
nbsp; He shrugged and sat back down. “I’m an optimist, actually. And I believe in making destiny happen. You can’t wait for the world to give you what you want, you’ve got to take it.”
Cait tried to imagine what it would be like to have no family—talk about damage. Her mom and dad might have an agenda, but they did love her in their own ways.
For a moment, she thought of G.B. at the café, interacting with his fans, smiling and being so sincere about his gratitude. Lot of love coming at him in that situation.
Made sense that he’d want to fill a childhood void by performing.
“What?” he said with a smile. “You’re looking at me funny.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize … I like your eyes on me. Aw, look, you’re a blusher.” He put his arms on the table and leaned into them. “Be honest. Are you feeling sorry for me?”
“Not at all. But your life makes me respect you more.”
And there was another angle to it. She shouldn’t have been surprised to find that there was a real person behind the singer Teresa was so enamored of—but it had been hard not to put him on a pedestal because of his voice, and imagine that everything had been white-picket-fence for him. Funny, the disillusionment was not a bad thing, not at all. As he talked with her, sat with her, exchanged with her, he was becoming three-dimensional, something so much more than a handsome hypothetical with an awesome talent.
“Will you let me draw you,” she blurted. As soon as she realized what she’d said, she waved her hand. “Sorry, that’s just—”
“Yes,” he said with a slow, intimate smile. “I would love that.”
Cait reached into her purse without looking away from him, and took out her sketch pad.
“Don’t move—wait, you’re frowning.”
“Oh, I was hoping—never mind. This is fine, too.” As his smile came back, he relaxed again in the chair. “I can’t wait to see how you see me.”
Cait’s pencil found her right hand as she flipped to a new page and started fiercely putting lead on paper. Fast strokes, darting across the white expanse, pulling his features out of the flat plane, sculpting his face and shoulders, his glorious hair, his compelling, intense eyes—
