by Chant, Zoe
“Know why?” the sheriff asked Jameson.
“No idea,” he said.
The sheriff nodded. “Go wash off that blood. Questions can wait—and these bozos can use some time in my lockup, once we shift the cows out.”
“Don’t sweep the floor in the barn,” Kesley called, her voice high and trembling.
Abe grinned back at her. “Wouldn’t think of it.”
He and the sheriff muscled the thugs away, the two loudly alternating between empty threats and whiny complaints, every other word some version of ‘fuck.’
Just before vanishing back through the lobby, Abe’s voice floated back: “Yeah, yeah, I get it, we’re hicks and you’re badass. But you’re still going to spend a night in cow plops.”
Jameson’s grip tightened around Kesley. “You okay?”
“Of course,” she said, trying to calm her frantic heartbeat. “You?”
He smiled a little. “Fine . . . But I could use a breather.”
His knuckles were red and puffy as he slipped his hands into his pants pocket and retrieved the key. He looked like his hands hurt, so she took the key and unlocked the door to his room. Silently he held it open for her, and she walked in.
The room was spotless, of course, having just been cleaned. She stood in the middle, arms crossed, aware only that this was his space, though there were no signs of him save an expensive carry bag on the bureau, next to the three pill bottles.
He walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open. She heard the sound of water running. He came out a moment later with a wet towel pressed to his face.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He flexed his left hand and stared bemusedly at the knuckles, where the angry red was already fading. “In the middle of it I kept getting images. Nothing I could make sense of. But I’ve been in at least one fight before.”
He wiped his face, blinked, then said, “It’s always fragments.” He turned his gaze toward the pill bottles, and grunted. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess that I’m not being paranoid.” He rolled the nearly-healed shoulder and winced. “Must have jarred the broken bones. I seem to heal really fast, but even so.”
“Bones take time.” She moved toward him as if drawn by an invisible cord of light, air, and heat, her hands eager to communicate all the things she had no idea how to say. His gaze lifted, the light from the window striking golden flecks in his eyes.
He stilled, and the air around them charged with promise.
“Massage?” she asked, her voice coming out husky.
There was his blinding smile again, in spite of everything. “What else are you offering?”
“Anything you like,” she whispered, deliberately dismissing all carefully thought out and logical cautions. Her entire body tingled with heat again, more urgent than ever—as if she could love away all the danger threatening him.
She would do her best to try.
He dropped the towel on the floor, crossed the distance to the bed, and sank down. And then, wincing, pulled his shirt off.
Oh God, he was beautiful. She looked at his tight abs, his broad, strong chest, his muscular arms, and swallowed against the jolt of heat rising from deep within her. Her head swam—she couldn’t believe it, twice in a morning? She had been lucky to have sex twice in a month before this, and none of them, ever, had been as amazing as Jameson.
Two steps and she was already wet. She climbed onto the bed and eased behind him, kneeling. The moment she laid her hands on his warm flesh, he sighed. New bruises were fast blooming on his back. She began to knead, covering as much of his smooth skin as her palms and fingers could reach, while avoiding the new hurts.
He breathed deeply, harshly, then groaned and captured one of her hands in his. “Kesley.” His whisper sent more lava shooting downwards.
He turned, and though her mouth was too dry for words, he must have seen the answer he sought, for he reached up to capture her face gently between his hands, and kissed her carefully, searchingly, as if he needed to memorize every part of her lips, the soft inner lining of her mouth, her tongue.
A commanding swipe of tongue melted her bones and set her flesh on fire. She opened to him, loving the way he took utter possession of her mouth, demanding and tender by turns, teasing and thrusting, withdrawing to invite her to venture exploratory licks and soft bites, and the next thing she knew she lay back on the bed, their fingers entwined as he took more time to kiss her thoroughly.
She let her hands roam over his chest, arms, abs, ribs, questing and caressing, massaging and smoothing. He responded with his own careful touch and they lay together exploring one another in a wordless conversation—does this hurt? Let me heal you. Ah, that feels good—tenderness the overriding emotion where earlier at the Flying Cranes, it had been all about heat and hammering pleasure.
Kesley rejoiced in how expertly Jameson learned her body while loving it—finding all her pleasure points and lingering there, until her back arched, and her breasts—tender from his attentions the evening before—responded with delicious intensity to the mere whisper of his lips.
And the urgency was back, a living force around them. She would close him behind these loving walls if she could, but at the sudden impact of their bodies together, and the long, slow dance that heated gradually, inexorably, to match the rhythm of thundering hearts, she forgot all about attackers and fake journalists. The world contained only the two of them . . .
They climbed higher and higher, muscles asking and answering until they crashed through the walls and tumbled slowly, slowly, through space until they lay breathing hard, limbs in sweet tangle.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Bandit, are you in there?”
Disappointment flashed through her. “Way to ruin the moment, sis,” she whispered.
Jameson smiled down into her face. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” Kesley said, and inside, her raccoon echoed, Yes! “Taking it slow was gone forever—even now, boneless with bliss, she knew she would never stop wanting him. “My place. On the top of Sunset Hill. You can’t miss it—the first little house after the blue ranch house with the long porch. Those dirtbags don’t know where I live.”
“Deal,” he murmured, picked up his shirt, and went to the bathroom.
McKenzi banged again. “Hey! Are you okay? Everyone’s going crazy out here!”
Kesley called, “Five minutes!” and joined Jameson in the bathroom.
He had the shower going, the water already hot. For some reason she succumbed to giggles, and collapsed in his arms. They showered quickly together, soaping each other, then coming out to towel and dress in haste.
Kesley cast one look at the hair dryer, then shrugged. As if McKenzi didn’t suspect what had been going on.
They opened the door together.
McKenzi’s wide gaze went from Kesley to Jameson, then she grinned, hand out. “I’m McKenzi, Kesley’s big sister.”
“Jameson.”
“Glad to meet you. Maddy sent me over here to fetch you and some kind of poisoned drug?”
Kesley picked up the bottles off the bureau. “Right. Let’s get these to her.” She sent a questioning look Jameson’s way, and he gave her a tiny nod.
He pocketed his keys. As they filed out, she thought how odd it was that they’d known one another two days, and already they could have an entire conversation in two looks.
Not odd at all, if he was her mate, right? For the first time she mentally probed that idea—tentatively, cautiously, like one tongues the place where a tooth was, expecting pain—but there was no pain. Yet, she said mentally, as they approached the VW. She didn’t dare let herself believe.
Kesley climbed into the cramped back seat, leaving the front to Jameson. Kesley gave her sister a short summary of the attack while she drove the back streets to Noah’s place on the eastern edge of town.
They piled out in front of the garage-lab, McKenzi looking around
suspiciously as if the old eucalyptus trees and the tangle of roses hid an army of spying bad guys.
Madison, a tall, thin blonde, came out to meet them. She wore a lab coat over her jeans and tee. “Come inside the lab,” she said.
As Jameson passed Madison, she looked up at him, then cut her gaze to Kesley and rounded her lips in a soundless whistle.
“You don’t have to stay,” Kesley said to her sister.
“Oh, yes I do,” McKenzi sang out with ferocious cheer, and if she had been in her cat form, her tail would have gone straight up, the tip waving.
Kesley sighed to herself as Madison introduced them to Noah, a tall dark-skinned guy with his dreads neatly bound back. He wore a lab coat, and beckoned them to the long workbench holding an impressive array of chemistry equipment. “Okay, those pills you sent over showed traces of sodium azide, a preserving compound often found in hospitals. As soon as it hits water, it turns into a gas. If you’d taken a higher dose . . .” He drew her finger across his neck.
“Turns into a gas inside the body?” McKenzi asked, making an ew face.
“Correct.” Madison nodded. “This is a tiny trace, which could be an accident, or there could be more of it, meant to build up.”
“And poison him?” McKenzi asked, putting into words what was already painfully clear.
Maddy gave her a Look that was the equivalent of a spray bottle spritz on a misbehaving cat, as Noah turned to Jameson. “I’d like to test the rest of what you have, to find out how much is in there, and whether the substance was contained in the pills, or added after they had been dispensed.”
“Does it matter?” McKenzi lifted her hands when Maddy scowled at her. “I mean, it’s clear someone tried to poison him!”
“Yes,” Noah said, and Maddy nodded firmly.
Jameson added in his deep, rough voice, “Either the pharmacist tried to poison me, or the drug was added afterward.”
Noah glanced his way. “That’s right. If there’s someone in the field out there poisoning people, we’d better get on that right now.”
Maddy’s smile vanished as Kesley handed over the bottles.
“I really appreciate this,” Jameson said. “Shall we wait?”
“It’s going to take a while,” Maddy said, exchanging looks with Noah. “And as you can see, we’re not really set up for visitors hanging out. Why don’t you go get some coffee at Dad’s, and I’ll know where to find you?”
“Great idea,” McKenzi said—as usual, speaking for everyone.
Kesley could see that her sister was highly entertained by the situation. She turned Jameson’s way, to catch an amused smile from him.
They got into the VW and ten minutes later sat at the back booth at Ralph’s. McKenzi kept looking between them with her cat-got-the-cream smile, which Kesley hoped Jameson couldn’t read, and once they got their coffee, she leaned toward Jameson. “So where do you come from originally?”
“East coast,” he said as he poured honey into his coffee.
“Did you shift to California recently?” McKenzi heaped sugar into her coffee, then dumped in a load of cream.
Kesley groaned inwardly, but Jameson didn’t seem to hear the emphasis on the word ‘shift.’
“I was recently in an accident,” he said. “I’m in California for recovery.”
He seemed absorbed in stirring honey into his coffee, and Kesley knew he was not going to say more. She cast her sister a Meaningful Look. “How about we talk about something else?”
McKenzi smiled, plopped her elbows on the table, and turned her attention to Jameson. “Sure. What exactly is your Ms. Evans looking for?”
He lifted his shoulders slightly. “What she calls meta humans. She seems to think there’s some mysterious link between people and animals.”
He paused at this point, staring down into his coffee as he rubbed his forehead, and Kesley was surprised by the intensity of her wish to take his head in her hands and kiss away that faint line between his brows, and smooth the taut skin of his forehead.
“Maybe that would make more sense if I didn’t have a damned hole in my memory,” he admitted, and gave them a half-smile as he lifted one strong shoulder.
McKenzi’s lips parted. “The accident made you lose your memory?” she asked in such sinister tones Kesley wanted to slap her forehead. She glared at her sister. “Ah-h-h-h,” McKenzi said, nodding like a dashboard doll. “That explains much!”
“Kenzi . . .” Kesley said forebodingly.
McKenzi turned innocent cat eyes toward her. “Why, I was just wondering why Jameson seems to have a headache.”
“Having a giant fight with a bunch of crazy skinheads might possibly explain it,” Kesley said.
Jameson laughed. “I feel fine.” He shot a look brimming with secret laughter at Kesley, and she knew he was thinking about why he felt fine.
“Good,” McKenzi said. “But if the headache comes back, there are some who say that it can transform your mood. Oh, wait, is it the other way around? Transforming is the important part.” She dashboard-doll bobbed, and Kesley almost wished they were ten and twelve again so she could smack her sister and push her out the door.
But Jameson seemed completely unaware of the stream of unsubtle hints clumping by as McKenzi then asked Jameson if he’d ever seen the Transformers movies.
“I don’t remember,” he said.
McKenzi gleefully described them, using the words shift, transform, change, and alteration about a billion times, each with significant pauses and glances.
Jameson just sat politely, sipping his coffee, while Kesley writhed with impatience and embarrassment. In desperation she cut in with a dire glare at McKenzi. “Evil giant robots aren’t the most annoying things in the world.”
McKenzi gave her a smug, aloof glance that only a cat could manage. Fingertips pressed to her collarbones, she said, “Things? You mean, beasts?” And Kesley nearly groaned out loud when McKenzi said, “You wouldn’t be calling your dear sister a beast?”
Jameson didn’t speak, but Kesley felt uneasy, as if something subtle had changed, and she sensed it had nothing to do with her sister’s antics. When she glanced his way, she saw that tense line between his brows.
He rose and said, “Excuse me. Where’s the restroom?”
“At the back,” both sisters said together, and as he walked away with his characteristic alert, silent tread, Kesley leaned toward McKenzi and whispered fiercely, “What are you trying to do? Scare him away by sounding like an idiot? He has no idea what you’re talking about!”
“I can see that,” McKenzi said smugly. “But I was hoping to trigger a memory, or get him to feel his beast, whatever that may be.”
“We don’t know for sure that he’s a shifter. That was just my guess.”
“Oh, but we do. Aunt Julia said he’s one.”
Kesley stared as her sister smirked.
“Surprise!” McKenzi said. “She told me when I came into the Primrose to get you.”
Not all shifters could sense other shifters. Kesley certainly couldn’t, as raccoon or human. But Kesley had grown up knowing that Aunt Julia’s pig could smell a shifter with some sense denied to her human form.
“And how fast did that spread around?” Kesley asked with a sigh.
McKenzi took out her cell and began scrolling through messages. “The betting seems to be leaning toward a dog shifter of some kind, with a few guessing porcupine, ant-eater, koala, and . . . Harrison just posted the latest: Lionel Pendergast has thrown twenty into the pot. He thinks your Jameson has to be a rat shifter, because he fights so well. But Abe insists he’s ex-military, so his animal could be anything.”
Kesley shoved aside her cup and banged her forehead gently on the table.
Chapter Nine
Jameson leaned against the sink in the little restroom, gazing into his own bloodshot eyes. What was that inside him?
Beast. Something about that word disturbed him—made him feel as if someone had yanked out his
heart and replaced it with bullets and broken glass. Don’t let the beast out . . . don’t let the beast out . . . don’t let the beast out . . .
That whisper—desperately urgent—matched with the fire and pain and explosive roar after which everything had shut down: body, mind, spirit.
‘Beast’. It wasn’t quite the right word, and yet it was, because underneath the whisper stirred something primal, non-human. Had he done despicable things before the accident that had landed him broken and nearly brainless in the hospital? The vaguest sense of red-hot anger, of brutal exertion, pulsed down very deep.
As he blinked into the tiny mirror over the ancient, cracked porcelain sink, he grimly faced the thought that maybe he did not want to remember because he had seen things, done things, that . . . yeah, made him a beast.
He did his calming breathing until the throbbing pain subsided, and the engine of his heart downshifted from red-line overdrive. This couldn’t be good, either. One of those bottles of pills had been for his blood pressure, which he’d been told spiked when his head hurt the worst, or when he’d struggled hardest against the restraints binding his memory. He believed that—he could feel it. Being with Kesley had made him feel relaxed, good. Healed.
But that had gone away as soon as Noah started talking about poison.
It was as if something vital inside him clawed to get free, forcing his heart-rate to soar. He exerted every muscle to control himself. Gradually the thick nausea subsided, and he watched his eyes lose the red madness. A final breath, and he loosened his grip on the sink. Maybe he had been a beastly human being, but he would never be one again, that much he could swear to himself, not if he could have Kesley by his side.
Barely two days, and he knew his life was forever changed. In the endless desert of his existence he had found an oasis—no, a tree. She was the water and the word, the strong bark and sheltering leaves, the sustaining roots, the flower and the fruit. Every time he doubted, he had only to meet her wide dark brown gaze—same color as her hair—and there he wanted to be everything that could shelter and sustain her generous nature, her entrancing heat, her wonder and . . . trust.
