by Ciana Stone
“Don’t go, ma’am. Please, don’t—don’t leave me here alone. My dad…”
All at once the enormity of it descended upon him, crippling him with its weight. His chest pounded and ached, his head swam in dizzy circles. Using the last of her strength, the woman pulled him down, cradling him against her, his head against her bloody breast.
“Shhh,” she soothed. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s going to be fine. Just close your eyes and hold on. I’ll take care of you. Just sleep, honey, just sleep.”
Giving in to the promise of her soft voice, Morgan closed his eyes.
With a jerk, Morgan returned to the present. Raindrops glistened in his hair, dripped from his thick brows and into his eyes. At the moment he didn’t care. The water of nature mixed with the water of his tears as he stood in the rain and cried.
* * * * *
Morgan slapped his cell phone closed then hurled it across the room in a fit of fury. Why he had thought talking to his mother would help his disposition was a mystery. During the entire two hours, not once was his father mentioned. By either of them. Doris, his mother, was interested only in relating all of the gripes she had with everyone in her life.
With a snort of disgust, for himself and his mother, Morgan stormed into the kitchen and snatched a bottle of chilled vodka from the freezer. He filled a tumbler to the brim, but didn’t drink. Instead, he took it into the den and stood in front of the picture window, looking out at the rain.
Morgan wondered why it was so hard for him and his mother to talk about his father. Why it was hard for them even to mention him. But then, maybe he shared as much of the blame for that as his mother. He’d never even told his best friend about how his father died. As irrational as it was, Morgan still felt guilty that he’d lived and his father had not. Maybe that was because his mother’s favorite comment for years after his father’s death and been “if he hadn’t been taking you on some birthday outing, maybe he’d still be with us.”
As an adult, Morgan understood that nothing about his father’s death was his fault and there was nothing he could have done to prevent it. But his mother’s comments had instilled a sense of guilt not even the reasoning of adulthood had erased.
The phone rang. Morgan ignored it for the first two rings, raised his glass in a silent toast to the rain, and then set it down on a coffee table. The phone stopped ringing. Morgan looked down at the full glass, hearing its invitation, its promise of escape. If he was going to drink, the time would have been before he talked to his mother. At least then he wouldn’t have spent the last two hours with a chest full of need to talk about his father, to ask his mother the question he’d never had the courage to ask.
What was it about that birthday that made his father say it would change his life?
His father couldn’t have known what was to come on that day. Morgan had rationalized that out years ago, when a cheap psychic told him that his father must have known he was going to die. Morgan had demanded his money back. The woman was obviously no psychic or she would have known that his father would never have led him willingly into a situation that would end with people dying. His father would have done anything to keep him from such horror and loss.
The phone rang again. This time Morgan pounced on it. He needed a distraction—any distraction to help him climb out of the black pit of his own thoughts.
“Hello?”
“What’s up?” his best friend Chris drawled.
“Not much.”
“Want to hit JT’s?”
“Might as well.”
“Cool. Meet you there.”
“On my way.”
Morgan pocketed his phone and picked up his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair. It was still soaked. That annoyed him. The fleece was his favorite. He snatched his leather jacket from the closet. Something fell to the floor—a small scrap of paper.
He put on the jacket then scooped up the paper from the floor. On it was a phone number and name—Kelly. Morgan tried to remember with no success. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. He missed. Ignoring it, he headed out of the house.
* * * * *
Lola looked up with a smile as a woman entered her home office. “Hey! You look great!” she greeted her best friend, Kelly.
“I wish you weren’t such a liar. I look like shit. I started my period, my hair refused to do anything and I just found out that they’re giving the promotion to that bitch Cheryl.”
“Youch!” Lola saved her file on the computer, exited the system and reached for her purse. “Listen, don’t sweat it. You’d probably have hated the job, and there really isn’t that much more money—just more responsibility, hours, yadda, yadda, yadda.”
“I know,” Kelly griped. “But I wanted the damn title. Project Director Kelly Martin.”
Lola chuckled. “Come on, Kel, you don’t need a title to be somebody. That Cheryl isn’t half the person you are, and doesn’t have near as much going for her. Your time’s coming. It just isn’t here yet. And besides, there’s more to life than a job and title, isn’t there? Please, please, please tell me there is or I’ll be forced to hurl myself in front of a bus.”
Kelly finally laughed. “Okay, maybe I am overreacting. But I did want the title.”
Lola linked arms with Kelly and started for the door. “But you’ve already got one. Kelly, Queen of the BowlaRama.”
Kelly shoved her away in mock fierceness but laughed despite herself. “Don’t even go there.” Her title as Queen of the local bowling alley was a joke between them, since she’d earned the title by breaking the all-time worst score in the history of the place.
Lola laughed and made a sweeping curtsy for Kelly in front of the door. With a dramatic flourish of her short jacket, Kelly swept through the opening. Lola smiled and followed.
She’d been back from her visit with Eulalia for over six months and still had no idea who the person was she was supposed to help save, or what she should do to try to find him or her.
Eulalia had instructed her on history and the importance of trusting her instincts, and urged her to continue to develop her abilities, but she would not give Lola the name of the target. That, she’d said, was the role of the Sister.
Lola had been looking. Everywhere. But so far nothing. No one she met made a bell ring in her head or lightning strike. She was beginning to despair. Sure, she’d made some progress in understanding the nature and mechanics of her ability, but she was supposed to be helping save the world and she couldn’t even figure how who she was looking for.
Telling herself to trust that it would happen when it was supposed to, she pushed aside thoughts of doubt and focused on the moment.
* * * * *
“Damn, how’d you make it here before me? Weather’s a bitch.”
Morgan’s head jerked up at the sound of the voice. His best friend Chris slid onto the stool beside him at the bar. Truth be told, Morgan didn’t even remember the drive. He had been caught in thoughts of the past. Despite his best efforts to put it out of his mind, all he could think about was the day his father died.
“Earth to Morgan,” Chris’ voice snapped him back to the moment. “Jesus, Morgan, you on drugs?”
“Just stuff on my mind,” Morgan commented.
“Babe stuff?”
“Hardly,” Morgan said with a snort.
“Work?”
“Just let it go, Chris.”
“Fine.” Chris raised his hands, palms out, in surrender. “So, did you call that girl we met the other night? Kelly?”
“Who?”
“Christ, Morgan, Kelly. You remember.”
“Yeah, right,” Morgan replied. “No, didn’t call her.”
“Are you crazy? She was hot!”
“Then why don’t you call her?”
“Uh, duh, because she gave you her number. You still have it?”
Morgan thought about the crumpled paper he’d tossed in the direction of the trash can. “Must
’ve lost it.”
“Man, you need to get a grip. You’ve been in some strange funk for over a month. What the fuck’s up?”
Morgan shook his head and took a look around. Maybe it would do him good to talk to someone, but sitting at a bar where there were lots of ears to overhear wasn’t his choice of venues. “Let’s grab a booth.”
Chris slid off his stool, signaling to the bartender to bring his beer to a booth across from the door. He and Morgan claimed the booth. He propped his elbows on the table. “So give. What’s up?”
Morgan sighed and slumped against the wooden back of the booth, his fingers twirling the untouched bottle of beer. “Today’s my dad’s birthday.”
“How long’s he been dead?” Chris asked.
“Since my twelfth birthday,” Morgan replied, feeling a twinge of anxiety talking about it.
“Fuck, man, he died on your birthday? That sucks. What happened? Heart attack?”
“He died trying to save a baby from a wrecked camper.”
Chris looked away, clearly uncomfortable at the sudden welling of tears in Morgan’s eyes. Morgan swiped his hand over his face and pushed himself up straight. No way was he going to blubber in a bar in front of his friend.
“He was a hero,” Chris said quietly.
Morgan nodded. Maybe he was. Only he hadn’t saved anyone. Not only had he died with the baby in his arms, the mother had died as well. So in the end, he’d given his life for nothing. Morgan supposed that was what cut so deep. If either of the people had lived then at least his father’s heroics would have been for something. As it was, it was a waste of a life, leaving Morgan’s mother without a husband and him without a father.
And, Morgan suspected, leaving him with something he’d never known how to deal with. Three days after his father’s death, something had happened to Morgan. Something he could not explain, or understand. And something that still scared him.
“Well, hey now.” Chris’ voice drew his attention away from his own fears and demons. Chris nodded in the direction of the door. “Isn’t that Kelly?”
Morgan cut his eyes over at the door. It looked like the same woman, but he wasn’t sure. He guessed she hadn’t made that big of an impression on him. Certainly not as big as the one she’d made on Chris.
She looked up and caught him and Chris watching. “Oops,” Chris mumbled and threw up his hand in greeting with a welcoming smile.
Morgan nodded but made no move to invite her and her friend, who stood behind her blocked from sight, over to their booth. He didn’t have to. Chris was already on his feet headed in their direction.
With a curse, Morgan pushed the beer away from him, looking in the direction Chris had gone. Chris had one hand on the woman’s arm at the elbow, leading her toward their booth. The second woman trailed behind.
“Hey, look who I found,” Chris announced. “Kelly, you remember Morgan?”
“Yeah, hey, Morgan.” Kelly’s greeting was not all that warm. That didn’t surprise Morgan. He had said he’d call her.
“Have a seat,” Chris offered and slid in across from Morgan.
Kelly looked from him to Morgan, and then slid in beside Chris. Morgan slid over as the second woman stepped closer. He looked up and suddenly the lights dimmed. Or his vision dimmed. Something dimmed because his peripheral vision vanished. It was like looking through a tunnel. And dead in the center of that tunnel was a set of eyes from a dream.
He nearly stopped breathing. It wasn’t possible. Images flooded his mind, blinding him to reality.
She stood before the opened window, the wind blowing the flimsy fabric of her unfastened robe so that it swirled around her like light. Backlit by the moonlight from the window, she was but a silhouette of womanly curves and billowing long hair.
Slowly, she walked toward him. She stopped at the edge of the bed. He could make out her eyes, saw desire shining in their depths. His heart beat faster and his breath quickened. His dick swelled to full erection beneath the sheet.
“I’m here for you,” she whispered.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“Whatever you want it to,” she replied and sat on the bed beside him, running her hand down his sheet-covered body to his erection. “Do you want me, Morgan?”
“God yes.”
“Then take me.”
He pulled her down to him, her long hair creating a sweet fragrant tent around their faces as her lips met his. Her taste was sweet, intoxicating. His tongue plundered her mouth, his teeth nipped at her tongue, captured her full lower lip to bite softly.
She moaned and climbed atop him. He could feel the wet heat of her sex through the sheet. It was a delicious torment, feeling her grind on him, unable to sink into her. The kiss was unending. At first passive, she became the aggressor, exploring his mouth, tasting him.
He flipped her over on her back and suddenly her face was visible to him, framed by the dark halo of her silky hair. With the light slanting across her, he beheld her beauty.
“I want you,” she whispered. “Inside me. Please.”
No further encouragement was needed. Ripping the sheet away, he parted her legs, gripping her behind each knee to spread her. She moaned as he penetrated her in one slow stroke and one of her hands worked its way down her body. Her fingers worked at the bud of her clit as he watched in lascivious fascination, pumping into her stronger and harder.
The onset of a climax threatened. He tried to slow, but she wouldn’t let him. She bucked up against him. “More, give me more.”
Reality abruptly returned when Kelly’s friend shrugged out of her jacket, turning her head to look at him as she tossed it across the back of the booth. Her face drained of color and the next thing he knew, her eyes rolled back, she went limp and hit the floor.
Chapter Three
Lola woke with a start to find herself lying on the floor, cradled in strong arms while people crowded around her, gawking curiously.
“She okay?” a male voice asked. “Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, no. I’m fine,” she insisted. “Just…low blood sugar. I guess I forgot to eat.”
It was a lie, and she hated lying but her embarrassment had catapulted the words from her mouth before she could stop them.
“Could you bring her something to eat? Maybe a bowl of soup and some bread?” The voice came from the man holding her. It was a deep-timbered voice, but low and soothing.
She turned to see who held her. It was Morgan. Once again the world tilted crazily on its axis. A soft gasp escaped her lips and his arms tightened around her. “Hold on,” he said, “we’ve got some food coming. Don’t faint again, okay?”
Lola wanted to do more than faint. She wanted to get up and bolt for the door, run far away from the embarrassment, and from the man whose visage made the world spin out of control. She needed to be alone, to figure out what was happening and why. Was this the person? She prayed it was not.
He was not a stranger to her. She’d idolized him for years, dreamed about him, fantasized about him. Oh god, she’d even masturbated, thinking about him. If he was the man she’d been selected to protect, then she was going to fail miserably because she couldn’t even look at him without turning into a pile of quivering female need.
“Let’s get you into the booth,” Morgan said and lifted her up as he stood.
Lola’s arms went instinctively around his neck, drawing her face in closer to his. She smelled him. A scent that was clean and barely reminiscent of deep woods and twilight. A scent that had her pulse racing and dampness gathering in her panties. As he placed her gently on the bench seat, their gazes met.
She could have sworn she read fear in his eyes. That shocked her so that it warded off the threatening faintness and tempered the desire. Why was he afraid? She was tempted to open her senses to try and find out, but the moment passed. He looked away and took a seat beside her.
“I’m Lola, by the way,” she said. “And I’m very sorry.”
&n
bsp; “Nice to meet you, Lola,” Chris said at almost the same instant Kelly spoke.
“Forget it.” Kelly dismissed the apology and addressed Morgan and Chris. “It’s just like her to forget to eat. She gets so wrapped up in what she’s doing that it’s like she’s on another planet.”
“What kind of work do you do, Lola?” Morgan asked, looking at her but not meeting her eyes.
Hearing her name roll off his lips gave her an unexpected shiver of something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Desire. Just his presence seemed to have that affect on her, but him saying her name was like the call of a siren that had her mind filling with images of sweat-dampened sheets, wet skin and panting breath. She tried to ignore the feelings and shake off the images as she answered.
“I’m an artist.”
“Really? What’s your medium?”
“Actually, I now do everything on the computer, but occasionally I still do oils.”
“And you should see her stuff!” Kelly exclaimed.
“I’d like to,” Morgan replied.
“She makes me out to be better than I am,” Lola said and changed the subject. Talking about herself was not something she enjoyed. “Let’s talk about you and what you do,” she suggested even though she already knew the answer
“Morgan’s a photographer,” Chris supplied.
“The Morgan Sands, right?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
Safely on a subject that she’d been passionate about for years—namely his work—Lola was able to forget her shyness, and the awkwardness of the situation. She was a huge fan and considered him one of the most talented photographers in the world. If he was the man she was supposed to save, she guessed she could count herself lucky. Even if he did send her hormones spiraling.
“I love your work. Your show at ICP last year was amazing.”
“You saw the exhibit?” Morgan asked.
“Are you kidding? I nearly starved for three months to make the trip to see it. It was my first time in New York and was really amazing. This is really incredible. I can’t believe I’m actually sitting here talking with Morgan Sands. I’m probably one of your biggest fans.”
