I snort—since standing I’m barely taller than he is sitting—but drop back into my chair.
He smiles and pulls a bottle of Patron from a cabinet under the TV. “Have a couple drinks with me.”
“For shit’s sake,” I groan, shaking my head. “You know me and tequila don’t get along, Georg.”
“Oh, but I insist. It would be rude to refuse a king in his own castle.” He winks at me and cracks the bottle. Taking a big swig, he passes it over. Neither of us requires a glass.
“Please. As big and pretty as this place is, it isn’t exactly a castle.” I reach for the bottle. For a beat, both our hands are on it, but Georg doesn’t release his grip. I raise my eyebrows to see those big brown eyes locked on my face.
“No, it’s a home, Seph. My home. And one to anybody I care about. No matter what shit might be following them. Remember that.”
For the second time in less than a week, he has me getting choked up. Fuck, Georg.
I’ve never questioned my decision to say no to him. Not once. But right now, I can think of a lot worse things than being hitched to this man. The desire to lean on someone—someone I can trust, someone strong and kind who will guide me through this mess with a firm and steady hand—it’s overwhelming. Especially after my epiphany about Tyr and the nagging sensation I’m being neatly backed into a corner by dark forces.
Despite what everyone in my life may think, I’ve never been that keen on going it alone. It’s just always seemed a better choice than risking leaning on someone the way I did on Jack. But right now, I’m tired of fumbling about, being confused and scared… and lonely.
When I glance at Georg though, it’s not his comforting dark gaze that I crave. It’s a cool grey-green one that always seems to look right through me, down into the dregs of my washed-up little heart. As I pull back, Georg releases the bottle, his jaw tight. My fingers are trembling when I raise it to my lips. Maybe part of me does wish I could choose him, but that’s never really been an option, has it?
You can’t always pick your poison. Sometimes you just have to drink the glass set in front of you.
It takes another long swallow of tequila before my nerves finally steady. I pass the bottle back to Georg. He twirls it through his big hands, looking at me steadily.
“I appreciate that,” my voice cracks. “I do, but I’m leaving tomorrow. Not because of Agatha and what she said” —I raise a hand as his eyes narrow—“but because Syana’s leaving for her Guard weekend tomorrow anyway… And because I can’t keep hiding from my problems, Georg. Thanks for letting me stay the last few days, though. I really needed it.”
“You needed to get beat black and blue?” With an irritated snort, Georg looks me up and down before setting down the tequila and grabbing a controller. “Your bruises have bruises. And you’re moving around like my 204-year-old babushka. Bet you’re too sore to even play properly.” His tone holds the edge of a challenge. I know he’s doing his best to gloss over what just happened and I let him, because I don’t want to deal with it either. I just want something uncomplicated by bullshit. My friend.
“Please. I kicked Dom’s ass.”
“Dominic doesn’t have my skills.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, smirking.
I groan loudly, but reach for my own controller.
“It’s on, bear boy. I’m so gonna skin you.”
The next morning I don’t want to get out of bed. Or move. Or fucking breathe. My ass is weighed down by all the tequila Georg and I ingested the night before. We went from the Xbox (I kicked his ass) to the pool table (he kicked mine) to the porch, then to the backyard, where we lit a bonfire and everyone else (except Agatha) joined us. I tried to show off my new fighting moves at one point and almost tossed Georg into the fire. Stephen, who for some reason, wasn’t drinking, called an end to the festivities shortly after that. I’m not sure when we all went to bed, but I know it was well after three. I smell like bonfire and stale alcohol and my head feels like someone used it for a piñata.
Oh well, I’ve had worse morning-afters.
I force myself to shower and throw my things together before heading to breakfast. The bruins are at the table, and Dominic is passing out pancakes slathered in berries and syrup. As the warm, sugary smell wafts to my nostrils, my stomach does the shimmy. I muffle a groan, trying not to hurl.
Shifters rarely get hung-over, the assholes.
I stay long enough to finish a coffee before heading out to my car. Everyone but Dom—who gives me a rib-cracking squeeze before facing the mountain of dishes left in the sink—follows me outside.
More hugs all around from the guys, Georg’s a little briefer than normal maybe, but that’s probably for the best. Syana walks me out to my car.
“Practice. Every fucking day, you got me?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“I’m serious about this shit. Muscle memory is a powerful thing. You’d be surprised how quickly it can take over when you need it to.”
I promise, looking back at the porch. Ajax has already gone inside, probably to help his brother. Georg is leaning against the supports, a cup of coffee steaming in one big hand as he talks with Stephen. He must feel my eyes on him, because he lifts a hand, but continues his conversation, a half smile twisting his lips.
A finger of something cold touches the back of my neck. I look up to see the sky darkening, turning that dirty yellow grey that always bodes ill.
To my surprise, Syana suddenly hugs me tight. It’s not her usual modus operandi. Touchy-feely Sy is new, but maybe the bruins are rubbing off on her. “There’s a storm coming,” she says. “You better get going so you can beat it home.”
I let her go reluctantly and force myself to get in the car. Pushing the Fiat a little harder than I should, I rattle down the rough dirt road. That forbidding feeling is sinking deeper into my gut, convincing me that I’m leaving the last bit of peace I’ll ever know behind.
But I don’t look back.
5
I listen to the winter advisory warnings all the way home. It’s looking to be the first big storm of the season. Maybe two and a half feet when all is said and done. They’re predicting it to hit early tomorrow. Shit. That, and it being a Friday, means T&T is gonna be packed tonight. People will want to get their drink on before that sucker hits.
That’s why I go to the bar first, instead of going home. Or so I tell myself. I leave most of my stuff in the Fiat. After a second’s hesitation, I grab Tyr’s stone from the glovebox and shove it in my jeans pocket before heading inside. It’s almost ten in the morning so Benji is already at work, making sure the Laundromat area is spic and span and ready to go. He grins when he sees me.
“You finally took a few days off. I was in shock.” He loves when I take time off. I swear the guy lives to fucking work. Which is fine, just what I want in an assistant manager, but sometimes I think he needs a bit more of a life. He’s only a year or two younger than me, and handsome, if you’re into the buttoned-up type. But I’ve never seen or heard of Benji having a significant other. ’Course, I’m hardly one to judge anyone’s relationship status.
“I took a whole week in July, Benj.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but that was ages ago. You feel like working the bar tonight? Allie’s afraid to come in, doesn’t want to get stuck if the storm comes early.”
Allie’s one of our part-time bartenders who lives halfway to the Range, a good thirty-mile drive from town. “Yeah, sure. Tell her to stay home. I’ve got it.” Slinging drinks is just what I need.
Like I predicted the bar is hopping all night. People wanting to get their drink on before the storm comes down. I barely get a chance to breathe, or think until after one. It finally clears out as the leading edge of the storm starts to hit and I decide to clean up early.
The bar’s empty now, only the murmur of Michael Hutchence’s voice on the jukebox. An old song that makes me vaguely sad in that melancholy way that is almost peaceful. I’m hungry, wondering if Carly’s
made any of her famous Christmas cookies yet—the ones she makes with real butter and this insanely amazing icing. I’m finally okay with the idea of going home. It’s still not quite two, but as soon as I finish, I’m out of here. I need get up the hill to home before the storm makes it impossible.
I’m sluicing water down the floor drain when the door opens, letting a blast of wind slip inside with an eerie howl. Goddamnit.
“We're closing,” I say, hanging up the hose without turning around. “But I can do you a shot or a beer, if you make it fast.”
“I'm pretty good at fast, at least when it comes to some things.” My knees go weak at that familiar raspy voice and I clutch the edge of the sink. “For others I prefer to take my time.”
I turn slowly to see Jack standing there, brushing snow out of his thick chestnut hair with one hand, eyeing me with a bemused smile, his grey-green eyes as icy as ever. “Miss me, princess?”
I don't say anything, my brain apparently short-circuited by all the questions I want to ask. Why is he back? Where did he go? Is he here to collect on his Dark Council cronies’ bounty?
And of course, the number one question—why does he have to look so fucking good? Striding across the floor, those broad shoulders tugging at the distressed leather of his jacket, the muscles of his thighs flexing under the worn jeans—jeans that cling in all the right places—Jack looks good enough to eat. The thought of Carly's Christmas cookies has nothing on Jack.
I want to lick him from head to toe and every place in between. But the cookies are safer, they’ll only rot my teeth and pad my ass. Indulging my craving for Jack is likely to have far more serious consequences.
His hair is tousled and damp from the snow, darker than normal. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two and the heavy shadow on his jaw only highlights those stormy eyes as he takes me in. Jack looks more than a bit hungry himself. The thought makes a shiver run down my spine.
To hide my reaction, I reach for the Jim Beam, pour the shot into a freshly washed glass and slide it over. He inclines his head.
“Join me?”
I lift my eyebrows but set another glass next to his.
“Kinda surprised to find you here,” he says as I pour my shot.
“Why?”
“Heard you were camping out at the Den.”
My hand tightens on my glass before I down it. Despite how casual Jack’s voice is there is an undercurrent in it. A dark one that we both know he has no right to put into words.
“Because I was. Sy is there. And …Georg is still a friend, Jack.” I set down my glass to pick up a bar towel and start rubbing at the already-gleaming wood.
“And I’m not.” It doesn’t sound like a question, but the air feels expectant somehow. Even though Jack just stares at the whiskey, his eyes hooded.
“No,” I finally say. Despite everything, it stings to say that. But it’s the truth. “I don’t think that’s a title you can claim, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“You guess not?” Now I’m irritated. “What the fuck, Jack? You do remember playing me, right? In every way a man can play a woman. Worst of all, you let everyone know it.”
Of everything that was fucked up between me and Jack, that is still what guts me most. Very few people had known about our relationship. He was the one who put it out there after he dumped me, making sure everyone knew that Oriane Gosse’s youngest daughter had been dumb enough to get herself ensnared by a spell that lasted for life. People already thought I was a bit of a freak—the weak sister in a family of over achievers. Jack’s juicy story spread like wild crabgrass, entangling me in pitying looks, sneers or giggles. To this day, when I meet an FTC for the first time and they hear my name, it’s inevitable, that hint of recognition. The virgin witch who lost more than her heart to this cold-ass son of a bitch in front of me.
My voice shakes with frustration and temper, but when Jack takes a drink, his hand is steady as a surgeon’s. When he speaks, his tone is level and cool. “I did.”
“You’ve admitted repeatedly that you can’t be trusted, that you have your own agenda.”
“All true.” He puts the empty glass down and gets up. But instead of heading for the door, he comes around the end of the bar, his boots thudding against the hardwood floors.
My hands tighten on the towel, but I don’t back away. Lifting my chin, I stare him down as his long legs eat up the space between us, the movement of those lithe hips making my throat go dry. “You told me to pay attention to what you do, Jack. I am, and none of it’s good.”
“None of it?” He raises an eyebrow, a sardonic twist to his mouth. “Maybe you need a reminder of what I’m good for, princess.”
He’s so close now that the smell of him has my nostrils flaring. I have to tilt my head back to meet those icy eyes. The intensity there has my heart pounding more than it already was. He looks like a man with something to prove.
“Jack—”
“Can you shut up for one goddamned minute so I can kiss you?”
Oh.
Well.
He pushes me back against the bar, his hands settling on either side of my hips. Leaning down, Jack lets his warm, whiskey-scented breath feather over my lips, his eyes never leaving mine. His coat is freezing from being out in that storm, still dotted with melting snow, but under it, Jack is as warm as if he spent an hour relaxing in front of a fire. My fingers tremble as they press against the soft fabric of his sweater, the hard contours beneath all too easy to trace. It brings back certain memories in vivid detail. He may have only fucked me once, but he took his sweet time getting there. Jack was the first man to teach me about pleasure and he did his job excruciatingly well. A wave of heat laps at my belly and licks lower. I make a sound, somewhere between a whimper and a moan.
With a curse, Jack slides one hand in my hair. My eyes are already fluttering closed when that rough whisper has me blinking up at him. “You didn’t answer me before.”
“A-about what?”
“Whether you missed me or not.” Jack’s fingers tighten in my hair, a look in his eyes that both scares and excites me. “But I missed you. I always fucking do.”
He tugs my head back with a possessive growl, his teeth grazing my racing pulse until I’m gasping for air. Those firm lips explore the line of my throat, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. When Jack finally kisses me, I moan into his mouth, my hands twisting in his shirt.
His tongue is wild and greedy, sliding hotly against mine, full of hunger, need and a touch of anger. Soon I don’t remember what my name is, let alone what the hell I was talking about. My nipples are hard and throbbing and my head is dizzy.
He pulls back, a satisfied smile curving those lips in the sudden stillness. “Nothing good, eh?”
“Fuck you, Jack.” I wrap my fingers in damp leather and yank him back down, wiping that smirk right off his face.
He tastes like the whiskey he just drank, smoky and dark on my tongue. And goddamn him, I want more than a taste. A lot more. As if reading my mind, Jack takes control again, not only of the kiss, but of me.
Not taking his mouth from mine, he lifts me onto the bar, fitting that taut body between my legs with a masculine groan that makes me shudder. I wrap my legs around his waist, wind one arm around his neck, and slide my fingers into that snow-wet hair, nails raking his scalp lightly. Jack’s hand cups my breast through my sweater, my nipple budding tight against the warmth of his palm. When I arch against him, lights go off behind my eyes.
I love sex, what I’ve allowed myself to have of it since Jack anyway. The feel of men, the way they smell… Turning me on is nearly as easy as flipping a light switch. If Jack hadn’t broken my heart and my ability to trust anyone with a penis, I’d probably be a terrible slut—and enjoy every damn second of it. As it is, I’ve had a whole lot of fun over the years, but this…with him…it’s a different ball game.
Hell, it’s an entirely new sport. Every night for the last couple weeks, along with the n
ightmares, Jack has been haunting my dreams. Those kisses we’ve shared since he returned have awakened memories I’d shoved to the back of my head and buried under piles of dirty laundry. When he seduced me all those years ago, Jack drew me in like a master. I was so young, it was inevitable that he seemed fucking perfect in every move he made.
I’ve told myself that was why no one else could measure up, but I can’t fool myself anymore. There’s a connection between me and Jack, something dark and sensuous, making me want to give in to this heat, to let it consume me from the inside out. To give him all of me, just like I did before.
When I got burnt to a damn crisp.
“Fuck…this. I can’t sleep with you. Dammit, Jack, I won’t.” I get the words out with what’s left of my oxygen, trying to gather my scattered thoughts along with my out-of-control hormones.
“Not planning on sleeping, princess,” Jack’s growl is right in my ear. “And we don’t need a bed.” He slaps the bar with one hand, making me jump, before he reaches around to cup my ass and yank me up against him. “This will do fine. In fact, taking you on this bar is turning me on like crazy.”
I can tell. He’s hard and thick, grinding into me. My inner muscles flutter at the thought of tightening down on that delicious cock. Holy horned one, it takes everything I have not to arch against him and deepen that sweet pressure. I want him bad enough it actually hurts, my clit pulsing in time with my racing heart. But I love T&T, it’s kind of what saved me after Jack’s bullshit last time. If things go south again, as they’re practically guaranteed to, do I want to think of him fucking me here every time I stand behind this bar? Whatever this is between us, it will come to a bad end and pretending otherwise will only get me hurt.
I don’t believe in fairy tales anymore.
When I pull back, his eyes lock on mine. “You’re scared of me.”
“I’d be stupid not to be.”
“You’re right,” Jack mutters, his voice strained, “but that doesn’t mean we have to stop, Seph.”
Blackbirds & Bourbon Page 4
