“What happened here?” he asked, tracing a finger over my bandaged forehead. I had tied my hair in a tight ponytail after I left the hotel, but I wished now that I had left it down. Not that it'd have covered the bandage, but it wouldn't have left it so stark and exposed either.
“Ran into an invisible wall,” I told him, and he smiled, probably thinking I was lying, trying to evade.
“So, you're shopping?” He motioned to my bags.
“Yeah. My—uh—luggage got lost. I needed a couple of things and, since I was already in town, I decided to come here, reminisce old times.”
“My God. Vicky is going to flip when she realizes she missed you. She left just a couple of days ago.” He shifted his biker jacket to his other arm, reached inside his pocket and extracted a smartphone from it. “No, she's in a meeting,” he said to himself and returned the phone.
We talked some, mostly about him and Vicky, who had just graduated as an interior decorator and was currently in New York trying her first job. Tommy had also graduated as an accountant at the beginning of the year.
“You're following in the family tradition?” I asked. His father was the accountant at an investment firm owned by the family, founded by his grandfather. The Santanas were a wealthy family. Tommy's face lost some of the humor. “I would rather build things. I only became an accountant because it was expected of me, and because it was something my father always wanted me to do, but I'm more or less a carpenter.” He opened his hands palm up, showing me the calluses as if needing to prove to me he worked with his hands. Just then, a little boy, no more than three years old ran up to us, shouting, “Uncle Tommy, Uncle Tommy, Mommy says come.” He kept jumping up and down, until Tommy bent and scooped him up.
“You remember my sister Bianca?” he asked, tousling the child's hair. “This is Carlos, her oldest.” The boy might have been his nephew, but except for the eyes—which were a hazel color—the boy was a miniature copy of Tommy.
Since I had no idea what I was supposed to do or say to the kid, I just stood and smiled at him.
“That's her sitting over there with her husband Grant and sister-in-law. The baby on her lap is Carol.” He pointed to a table to the right, but all I saw was the curious look from Grant and calculating looks from the women. I recognized none of them. They turned away when they saw me watching them.
“Guess you better go then,” I said to Tommy.
“Yeah, I guess I better.” But he didn't move, and I didn't turn. We stayed like that for a moment eyeing each other, both thinking about everything that had been and what should have been if I hadn't disappeared, until the boy began squirming.
“I guess I should go now,” he said and turned. I watched him go. He took a couple of reluctant steps away, then turned and came back. “Listen, why don't you come by the old house? I'm staying there until I find a place of my own. You remember the address? That is, if you have time before you go?” he asked hesitantly, and I knew this was his way of asking me if I'd be around.
“If I have time.” I agreed in a non-committal way. He placed the boy back on his feet and kept a firm grip on the boy's arm while he fished for a piece of paper from his jacket pocket with his other hand. It was a receipt of sorts. Then he began patting himself for a pen I knew he didn't have. In this day and age, people were so dependent on technology, things like pens, pads, and even wrist watches were becoming extinct.
He was probably waiting for me to step in and produce a cell phone to catalogue whatever he had in mind. After a moment of patting, I took pity on him and reached inside my purchase bag for a magic marker.
I could see the faint flicker of disappointment behind his smile, but it wasn't like I kept a constant cell number. And, considering the fact I had no one, I'd go long stretches without needing to carry even a temporary one—like at the moment.
Because Carlos was wriggling furiously trying to be let free, I took the receipt—Nordstrom's—and wrote down his cell number, committing it to memory.
“If you decide to come, call me first,” he said, hesitating a moment, probably to see if I'd return the favor. Then I nodded, gave him a goodbye hug, Carlos now protesting he wanted to go. I lingered more than was polite, but I'd probably never see him again. He searched my blank face a moment, but after I forced a smile he didn't buy, he turned and left, disappearing in the throng of people.
When I turned to go, I found Logan leaning against the wall, watching. He was close enough to have heard the entire conversation—if he'd been there long enough. I noted he had gone shopping too. He had on a pair of light blue jeans, a black shirt and a wool coat like the one he'd been wearing when we first met.
Another food court, perhaps a life time ago. Without a word, he straightened and took my bags. I let him.
We moved out of the mall in silence, to a grey SUV, parked on the edges of the parking lot. Logan unlocked the back door and put my bags inside. I noticed my duffle bag and his laptop were already there. I didn't comment or thank him. I figured he wouldn't have gone back for my things if his laptop hadn't been there.
Besides, I wasn't feeling like talking. My mood was melancholic at best, downright depressing at worst. There was this black void, this emptiness inside me that had begun that rainy day when the PSS came to my house, ever widening with the speed of free falling each passing day. So far, ten years and counting, and there was nothing below, a small pinprick above.
I wanted, more than ever, to have my freedom. I wanted to be able to talk to my friends, go out for a movie and have a job. To at least stop falling farther down. It was times like this that the immensity of what I had lost because of the PSS hit me the hardest. I didn't have a college degree. I didn't even finish high school, get a diploma.
The rain had stopped, and there remained only a few white clouds scattered here and there, blue and pink and purple with the setting sun.
The cold November day was getting colder by the minute. We still hadn't said anything, and I respected Logan for giving me the time to collect myself. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. It didn't matter to me where we were going. For now, I just needed to close my eyes, try to relax my mind some, regain back some of the balance I began losing a few weeks ago.
Chapter Thirty
We hadn't gone far before we were slowing again. I opened my eyes, checked the buildings, high-rises, and rush of pedestrians around us. Traffic was busy, but moving steadily. People hurried home after a long day of work, some still wet, others dry and prim. A vendor pushed an empty cart slowly around the curb. I didn't recognize where we were at first, then realized we had gone to Arden West, to the Hilton Hotel.
We parked, and I followed Logan inside, carrying his laptop while he took care of my belongings. Again, he refused the help of an attendant and we got ourselves a room, under the name of Kevin Oliver. Even the credit card he used was under the alias. Or perhaps Logan Graham wasn't his real name after all.
Who knew? I didn't trust him, and he sure as hell didn't trust me. Hadn't he expressed his mistrust enough times already? We rode up to the fifth floor in silence, then around the corner on the carpeted hall, to our designated room.
Like I had already discovered, Logan didn't believe in cheap accommodations. Or a room with two double beds, I thought, spotting the king-sized bed dominating the room. The room was done in cream and greens, dark wood and subdued lighting.
Depending on the viewer, the room could be considered either feminine or masculine. It was a clever combination. There was a flat screen TV beside the bed facing a big, cushy green sofa, an executive desk on the far side under closed cream-colored drapes, a walk-in closet and a chest of drawers in front of the bed. I went straight to the desk and set the laptop on it. I opened and closed drawers in a sudden fit of nerves. There was a bulletin featuring Hilton's entertainments and services and I noticed that they had complimentary coffee. I skipped the rest and rang for the coffee.
Logan dropped our belongings inside the closet and came to st
and beside me. It was obvious he had something to say, and I tensed up.
He sensed it and bunched his shoulders in response. The silence between us became heavy, full of tension and things unsaid. We hadn't left things amiably back in the hotel, his disgust like a viscous barrier between us. Now it was obvious he wanted to talk about it, but I'd rather things be left alone, or forgotten. The comfortable silence we had shared just a moment ago was now fraught with an undesirable heavy weight.
“Let sleeping dogs lie,” my mother used to tell me when I became persistent about my father and what had happened to him.
Without a word, Logan reached for his laptop, extracted it from its case and propped it open. He logged on in a moment of awkward delay, typing his password in a blur. He took something out from his duster pocket and placed an ancient cell phone beside the laptop. It had a keypad and a very small screen. I hadn't seen one like that in ages.
Then, he turned to face me. He held something else in his hand… small metal shears.
He approached me with a frown, took my left wrist and examined the band. “How come it doesn't work on you?” he asked, then effortlessly cut off the bracelet. There was a zapping energy when it broke that coursed everywhere inside me, making even my teeth ache, and I wondered how bad it had been for him.
“Why did they use it on you?”
I restrained myself from saying “duh” and stated the obvious. “To prevent me from tapping my other nature.”
“They had you for nine years and never found out it's just a bobble?”
I shrugged. “Perhaps I never gave them any reason to believe otherwise.”
He leveled me a look, I guess edged with respect. “So, when you found the chance to go, you could unleash all you had.”
“It never came to that.”
I had hoped he wouldn't have connected the dots there, but now that particular cat was out of the bag. I shouldn't assume the PSS wouldn't hear about it. From what I had seen so far of Logan, he was either unstable or there was a full moon coming soon. Either way, he was a mercenary above all else, a no trust zone. And it didn't matter how high he believed his code of honor was. I didn't—and couldn't—trust him. Mercenaries made their living by selling out their abilities and knowledge to the highest bidder.
“Haven't seen one like that forever,” I commented, to diffuse some of the awkwardness.
He followed my gaze to the museum-quality phone and shrugged. “The old ones come without built-in GPS. Makes it harder to track.”
Oh? That was something to keep in mind.
I motioned to his laptop. “What's the plan?”
Reluctantly, he nodded and sat down. He clicked on a folder titled Roxanne and showed me the three addresses. “We'll pass by each house today, see if you recognize anything,” he said and went to the door even before the knock sounded. He took the coffee, tipped the man and brought it over. He poured us both a cup, then settled back on the chair.
“Like what?” I asked, sipping the scalding brew.
“Anything. A car, the flower arrangements, anything that looks familiar. Perhaps we'll be lucky, and you'll see your mother or a friend coming or leaving the house. The PSS will be watching her, but if they figured out you don't know where she is, they'll probably watch the three Elizabeths.”
I paused. “And then?”
“For today, that's it. If we find out which of the three is your mother, then tomorrow you can approach her—after I scope out the place.”
“What about the PSS?”
“I'll take care of them. I'll scan the surroundings and, when I find them, I'll keep them occupied, lead them away.” His eyes gained a certain gleam, anticipating a payback. I was sure this time Logan wouldn't provide them with an easy target.
“And if it's not her?”
“We will find her.” His confidence was meant to reassure, but it felt to me like a brush off.
We finished our coffee in silence, and Logan reached to fill my cup the same time I was reaching for the carafe. Our hands brushed. Static zapped. I pulled my hand away. He took a deep breath, filled my cup, then said, “About today, I'd like to explain myself.”
“Nothing to explain. Forget about it,” I interrupted, then moved to the sofa to put some much-needed distance between us.
“Damn it, Roxanne. Let me speak.”
I kept my rapidly-rising anger under control, not only because I didn't want to fight but also because I felt tired and he had a right to feel whichever way he wanted about me without having to apologize. We had a bargain, and he was not obligated to like me. I bent to place my cup on the coffee table and told him exactly that. “I don't want to talk about it. I'm used to disgust being aimed at me. You're not obligated to make any excuses to make me feel better. We have a bargain, not a relationship.” I straightened and was about to turn and face him when he took hold of my arm and whirled me around. I hadn't heard him approach. Was I so lost in my endlessly widening void or was he that silent a predator? I flinched involuntarily at the anger in his eyes. Had I been prepared or even had a little warning, I could have masked my reaction. Nonetheless, I masked my expression with my next breath.
And watched as his eyes darkened into a stormy grey.
“You're such a hypocrite. You think I was disgusted because you're something else? The only one disgusted at you is yourself. You're so blind with self loathing you think anyone who knows you're not human automatically dislikes you.” His voice held such scorn and derision that I reacted without thinking. My hand flexed once, then connected to his face with such force the thunderous snap could no doubt be heard in the next room over. His face turned ninety degrees, then returned with a chilling, deliberate slowness. I wouldn't be surprised if his eyes began glowing red with all that fury burning in them. He didn't return the favor—but I could tell he was angry enough to be considering it. A perfect handprint marked his left cheek. His nostrils flared once, but no smoke came out.
Nor did any fire spurt from my mouth.
I held my temper enough not to strike again. Or tried anyway. Somehow, I doubted I could get another lucky shot or another free pass. Should have made a fist.
“You know nothing of how I feel about myself,” I finally found the words to snarl at him, “and I don't want to listen to any excuses and denials of what I saw with my own two eyes.” I tapped a closed fist to my chest for emphasis. “God knows I've seen it enough times over the years.”
Logan's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with another decisive snarl. “Fuck off. I. Don't. Want. To. Know.”
My hand flexed again, but he was faster. His hands snaked out so fast I almost didn't catch the movement. He grabbed my upper arms with bruising force and shook me so hard my teeth clacked.
Oh yeah, he was furious.
His eyes were livid with anger, his jaws clenched hard enough to snap. I knew then I had pushed him hard and far. When his hand squeezed harder, I prepared for the next shake. My talons were at the ready, in case he decided to get more physical.
He didn't shake me though. Instead, he jerked me toward him. Before I could react, his lips crushed mine with bruising force.
I was too stunned to react at first, and then I began to struggle in earnest, afraid suddenly of what he had in mind. Terror choked me, keeping my struggles feeble. I tried to knee him but he blocked expertly. Abruptly he stopped, raising his head to look at me from a few inches away. He was breathing hard, visibly struggling for control, his warm breath fanning my face.
I stood frozen, afraid to move and trigger another violent reaction. An involuntary tremor ran down my body, and my eyes were huge with terror—a response predators pounced upon.
My arms, still held down by Logan in a viselike grip felt stiff with the strain of my clenched fists. I knew I was making half bloody moons on the palms of my hands with my short nails. I kept my expression blank, hoping desperately to block the terror from him, but my heart was beating so fast and hard; given his p
roximity, he not only could hear it, but could also smell the fear pheromones wafting from my pores. There was no use in disguising my expression when my body betrayed me so completely, but I did it anyway. It was better to give mixed signals than have him certain of how he frightened me at that moment. If there was just some space between us… We were looking into each other's eyes from an inch away. I could see small green flecks in his irises before he closed them and made a visible effort to control himself.
He didn't let go. His breathing was shallow, and I was sure his wolf was close.
I didn't struggle and, despite my better judgment, I relaxed my body a little. If I could control my fear it would be easier for him to control his wolf. His hands flexed on my arms once. I froze. My heart stopped briefly before slamming painfully hard against my ribs.
Logan's nostrils flared once, and a growl rumbled in his chest. Sweat beads appeared on his forehead and upper lip.
Shit, he was close.
I closed my eyes and willed myself to calm. I concentrated on my breathing and made an effort to slow it down. With my breathing, I slowed my heart rate.
No doubt, his hands would be leaving dark bruises on both of my biceps. An eternity later, Logan's grip loosened a fraction, but he didn't let go.
I opened my eyes and looked straight into his.
“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said gruffly.
No, but your wolf would.
As if reading my thoughts, or just my dubious expression, he shook his head. “I'm in control of my beast. I control my beast,” he repeated.
I nodded in agreement. He had yet to let go of my arms.
“Ever since I met you, you've awakened a protective part of me that I hadn't realized I was missing. I lost someone once to violence… Someone I should have protected.” He swallowed hard before continuing. “I want to protect you, to keep you away from harm. If you saw disgust earlier, believe me, it was purely self-aimed. You were hurt, you handled the scientist's goons on your own. I'm supposed to protect you, keep people away from you. Seeing all those marks on you was like a slap to my face. They could have killed you numerous times while I was sitting there, unconscious.”
Heir of Ashes Page 17
