He took the punch of pain he always got when he thought of Alice. Take it like a man, he heard his father say. Only he wasn’t really a man anymore. A ghost, a shadow, a fog of alcohol, maybe, but not a man. His father had been right all along.
“There’s an exit for Sugarloaf Boulevard,” she said, glancing again in the rearview mirror. She looked a little wary.
“Take it,” he croaked. Her neck was slender, elegant. Yeah. Elegant. That’s how she’d looked walking in through that door with the light behind her. An elegant creature of the light.
The pulse to his groin was shocking. He actually looked down to be sure. Shit. He was getting a hard-on. He hadn’t had an erection in....
The punch of pain wasn’t unexpected this time. He really needed a drink.
*****
“What address am I looking for?” Drew asked her backseat passenger.
She heard a half-grunt. “No address. Keep going.”
The big, beautiful houses disappeared behind them. She should have known he didn’t live in one of those. Now it was mostly sand and low brush, some algae-clotted ponds. She kept going. The road was called County Road 939 now. The brush turned into trees. The landscape started looking even more tropical and jungly. The road ended at Old State Road 4a. Not much of a road. Hardly even two lanes and it only went one way. To the left a gate led to a hiking trail.
“I take it we go right?”
“Yeah,” he grunted. Not a talkative guy. Or maybe he was still too drunk.
The road wound through trees and sloughs. The forest was dense. There were a couple of gates that might lead to invisible houses. They passed a little beach with a lone picnic table, and went over a bridge that crossed a channel of some sort. After that there weren’t any more gates, and no visible houses.
Dowser pulled himself up with a groan. “Next dirt road,” he muttered. “On the left.”
She didn’t see anything except places where bugs and snakes might hang out. She was out here in the middle of nowhere with a drunk guy. Not smart, Drew. Her style lately. “I don’t see any road,” she said, irritated.
“Wait for it.” He leaned over the back seat now. She smelled the alcohol on his breath, the musky sweat, even the blood from his scrapes and under that, something that was just…him. Had she ever been able to distinguish scents like that? His warm breath on her neck was doing something to her she didn’t like. Well, that wasn’t really true. But it scared her.
“There,” he said.
She had to look twice. A track really, not a road, meandered off the asphalt into the foliage. A battered metal mailbox sat on a post half-buried in the vines. She slowed, thinking. She should just drop him here. Make him get out right now. At least she still had her shotgun.
“How far down this road?”
“Leave me here. You’ve done enough.”
Wow. That was the problem, wasn’t it? She was the reason he’d been beaten. He’d helped her. And stupid or not, Drew Tremaine paid her debts. “I’ll take you to your house,” she said, through tight lips. She turned down the track. Vines hung from big trees. The car jolted along the ruts. How did he get in and out when it rained? Which it did a lot here.
In about a hundred yards a weather-beaten cabin appeared in the middle of a clearing already being reclaimed by the jungle. The cabin stood on stilts about six or eight feet high, with a wide porch and a shallow shingled roof. Not much paint left, but it had once been white. Or maybe pale yellow. It looked like an ancient lady from a bygone age picking up her skirts to avoid the mud and sand. Vines were already beginning to encroach on the stilts on one side of the porch.
Pretty different than the multimillion dollar homes up in Sugarloaf proper. She pulled onto a sandy place that looked like it might support a car. A derelict boat was turned upside down off to the right, with a motor and multiple engine parts littering the ground. She could see a dock just past the boat, jutting out over a channel maybe ten or fifteen feet wide.
“Okay, home sweet home,” she announced, turning in the seat.
Boy, Dowser really looked bad. His eye was swollen almost shut. His right cheek was scraped and bruised along with his chin. He had a split lip. And that was what she could see.
He leaned forward with an effort and opened the car door. It was painful to watch him pull himself out. He made only one little grunt, but that told its own story. A guy like this wouldn’t want to admit weakness. He stood, holding on to the car door.
“You going to be okay?” she asked. This was just not feeling right.
“Sure,” he grunted. But as he took a step, his right leg gave way and he fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
Damn. She got out of the car. Heat and the humidity engulfed her. It was hard even to breathe. She ran around the car. “Oh, my goodness,” she murmured. “Did they do something to your leg?”
“Old injury,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just needs ice.”
“Sure. You’re fine. No help needed here.” She put her hands on her hips and looked down at him. “Since you’re not asking, I’m not offering.” She reached down and took his arm. “I’m telling you. You need help into the house.”
He glared at her. “Thanks,” he half-sneered. But as she pulled, he got his good leg under himself, and allowed her to pull his arm over her shoulder.
This guy must be six-four or -five if he was an inch. She put her arm around his waist. His shirt was hanging in rags off him. His back was really scarred. Her hand touched bare skin. Drew sucked in a breath. Let it out. In. Out. You can do this. Having his body this close to hers was making it hard to think. Together they hobbled toward the steps.
They maneuvered around a pile of rope coils grayed by the weather and several rusting underwater traps, and took the steps one at a time so he could hop. She pulled open the rusted screen. He pushed open the door. It wasn’t locked. The inside of the cabin looked like it hadn’t survived a tornado. The place was essentially one big room filled with fast-food bags, empty bottles of booze, paper plates, an old TV that looked like it hadn’t worked in years with a coat hanger antenna listing from the top. A rumpled four-poster bed made from timbers and huge bolts and draped in mosquito netting sat in the corner next to a small chest of drawers. One area of the room was set off by a rough wood counter where a sink, a battered stove, two cupboards, and an old rounded fridge made a kitchen. Through an open door in the other corner she could dimly see a toilet. Thank goodness for small favors.
“What was this place, a vacation cabin?” she asked just to cover her horror.
He looked down at her like she was crazy. “Fishing shack. Canal goes down to the open water. ” He pulled her with him to the small round table, which, along with its two chairs and a dilapidated love seat, were the room’s only other furniture. Except, rather amazingly, for a desolate-looking Bowflex machine in the corner by the love seat. Well, that explained the physique. Did he still use it, even in his drunken condition? His body said yes. He reached for a half gallon of some house-brand vodka on the table. The cap was already missing, and he didn’t wait for a glass. He just tipped up the bottle and threw back his head. The way the muscles in this throat moved so distracted her that it took her a minute to remember all those stories about frat rats guzzling booze until they got alcohol poisoning. As in death.
She pulled at his arm. “Hey! Stop that.”
He came up for air. “Got almost sober there for a minute.” He took another glug.
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“Aw. What a tragedy.” He took another glug.
Drew just stared at him. That was what this was all about, wasn’t it? He didn’t care if he died. He was trying to blot something out so hard he didn’t care whether it took death to do it. This guy was dangerous. She should walk out right now before she started thinking she could fix this. No one could fix this. It would be stupid to try.
He glanced over at her, his eyes now visibly clouded. “You gonna leave, or what?” The
slur was back. He was weaving on his feet. But as he considered what he’d just said, a frown inserted itself between his brows.
She felt uneasy at the thought too, but shrugged. “Soon as I hit the bathroom.”
“Women. Always have to pee.” He motioned to the bathroom with a wave of the bottle.
“Thanks.” She looked in at the bathroom. There was an old claw-foot tub with a showerhead jutting out from the wall and a torn shower curtain on a rail, a sink, and a toilet. The mirror over the sink was freckled with age. She shut the door behind her.
“Leave right now, you fool,” she whispered as she looked at her smudgy reflection. Her cheek was a disaster area, red and swollen. There were probably a thousand reasons why she should leave.
But there were some reasons to stick around, too. Like finding out why the hell this guy had drawn her all the way across the country. There were lots of other men she could have had a needy, hormonal rebound affair with. That really built guy at the car repair shop would do anything for her, including marriage or armed robbery, just to drive her Maserati. There was that guy in her Ancient Egyptian history class, too. A little young, but cute and eager. But no, she had caught a glimpse of this guy on TV, and it was all over for some very strange reason. And it wasn’t because he was her one true love. Drew Tremaine did not do drunken derelicts.
He probably hadn’t raised a power. See above, not the one true love. One incident where she might have re-created the future she thought she had seen did not count as a power. She was naïve to have even considered it long enough to fly to Miami.
All this meant she had no business here. She should just admit she’d gone a little crazy and cut her losses. She’d waited all her life for true love and a power to emerge. She could wait a little longer. But going back to LA? Almost anywhere else was better.
Here, for instance.
What if the alcohol is obscuring who he is? Maybe he really is the One.
Do not listen to little voices in your head. He absolutely was not the One. A guy named Dowser? And he looked Italian. He couldn’t have Merlin’s DNA. Merlin was a Celt.
Still, she just couldn’t leave someone who had saved her from a really bad situation at great personal cost in the middle of nowhere without a car, unable even to walk into town because he was hurt. She bet there wasn’t even cell reception out here so he could call a cab.
So, she had to stay and help him out. Just until she could take him back to his car in the morning. Then she’d leave. She watched resolve grow in the eyes that looked back at her from the mirror. There. She was sure about something again. Maybe not the big stuff, but something.
She opened the bathroom door. Just until morning.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dowser slumped onto a rickety chair at the table as the girl closed the bathroom door. The alcohol was setting in. Yeah. Feeling pretty good. If by good, you meant numb. That’s what he always meant these days. Numb, that is, except for his cock. That wasn’t getting the numb message. He hadn’t been right since she walked into O’Toole’s. What was the big deal? She wasn’t his type. Long, cool, sophisticated. He liked them plumper and blond. She was stupid for coming into a place like that too. Predictably, he’d been forced to bail her out. Well, to be fair, she’d bailed him out too, with that shotgun. She was plucky, he’d give her that. She had broken that one asshole’s foot for sure. But she wouldn’t have been in that mess and he wouldn’t be hurting, if she’d just kept to her own world.
He took another swig from the bottle and stared at the bathroom door. She’d come out in a minute. And then she’d go. He’d be back to the way he was before he’d seen her in O’Toole’s.
He frowned. That didn’t feel so good. Didn’t feel good at all. Every time he thought about her leaving his stomach kind of turned. Must be the booze finally giving him an ulcer.
Nah.
He took another gulp from the bottle. And then another.
*****
The first thing that met Drew’s gaze when she emerged from the bathroom was Dowser, his big body slouched in one of the dining chairs. Great. If he passed out what would she do?
She glanced around to the several half-empty liquor bottles. On a hunch, she went to the refrigerator and opened it. Nothing. Well, a couple little bottles of colored salmon eggs, the kind they sold at bait stores, and a half loaf of bread that was busy growing penicillin. She checked the freezer. Chock-full of ice, but nothing else.
So, what did “helping him out” actually mean here? Help him into bed so he could wake up tomorrow and start drinking again? Stay just long enough to buy him some groceries? Take him to a car that he would drive back here while in some advanced state of inebriation?
Drew chewed her lip. Oh, the thoughts that were going through her head were bad. What he really needed was to get sober. And maybe, just maybe, she wanted to see what he was like when the alcohol wasn’t in control. Her mother would say she couldn’t fix this, that she was heading for trouble at a hundred miles an hour.
That thought made her chuckle. She was the girl with the Maserati, after all. She didn’t know how to do anything at less than a hundred miles an hour.
So that was it. She’d do what she could for him. And he wouldn’t like what she had in mind. Danger zone, here. He was a big guy who really liked his booze. He was at least double her weight and that Bowflex had made him strong.
Time to get creative. She looked around the cabin again from a new viewpoint. She passed over the exercise equipment and then her gaze snapped back. Some dusty weights sat in a pile—the leather kind that bucked around your wrists and ankles. The straps were made of very heavy leather. Yeah. And there was always that old rope in what might loosely be called the “front yard.”
First things first though.
She went over to the nodding Dowser. “Hey.” She shook his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”
“What?” His head came up and he looked at her out of the only bleary eye that wasn’t swollen shut.
“Before I go, I’m going to clean up your scrapes.”
“Don’t need that,” he mumbled, reaching for the bottle.
She snatched the bottle. “You can have all the liquor you want when you get out of the shower.”
“Shower?” He looked at her like she was a loon.
“No use cleaning up your scrapes when the rest of you is ... uh ... less than clean.” He glowered at her, but she raised her brows and wiggled the bottle. “Humor me. You’re fairly fragrant.”
“Don’t want a shower. Don’t want any Nancy Nursing either,” he grumbled.
“You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”
“Damn straight.” But the frown that drew his brows together paired itself with a look of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Of course you do. And I’ll leave right after you shower and I clean up your scrapes and put some ice on that eye.” Lying a little there, but he’d never remember. She grabbed his biceps, meaning to heave him up. But the shock of that touch drove right down between her legs. The need that had been building there ramped up to some new level. Down, Drew. You’re not that desperate. He was staring at her, blinking.
Drew heaved and he stood. Drew had trouble getting her breath. She watched his chest rise and fall. Under his torn shirt a smooth expanse of bronze skin curved over his pectoral to his brown, soft nipple. That was ... well, it was distracting. Thin white lines of scars wound over his chest. What had happened to this guy? He had a little line of dark hair over his sternum, hardly noticeable. But she was noticing everything right now, it seemed. “O... okay. If I get you over to the bathroom, can you stand in the shower by yourself?”
He nodded as though he was dazed.
“Right, then.” When they’d made it across to the bathroom, he sat heavily on the toilet next to the tub. “Lots of soap, right?”
“Want to join me, make sure I do it right?” he leered.
“No.” Yes. “That’s the last thing I want.” Liar, liar.
“I thought so,” he muttered, ignoring her denial and struggling to unbutton his jeans.
She slid past him and turned on the shower. Then she turned around and, without looking at him, headed for the door. Well, except for a little peek, and all she saw was that dark arrow of hair pointing downward to a decided bulge. He wasn’t wearing underwear.
She almost slammed the door as she hurried out.
*****
Dowser leaned on the wall and let the steaming water sluice over his body. The sting against his scrapes was getting clearer. He looked down. Damn cock was still more than half-mast. What the hell was this? He didn’t want to have hard-ons any more. He had no right to an erection. His reason for hard-ons was dead. He squeezed his eyes shut even though that hurt like hell. The pain was good.
He couldn’t be getting sober again. Not after what he’d just drunk. He reached for the soap. Damn, bossy girl. What right did she have? He lifted one arm. That pulled at his ribs and he winced. He sniffed his underarm. Ugh. She was right about that. Okay, he thought angrily. If that’s what it takes to get rid of her.... But knowing she was out there, in the other room, waiting for him as he rubbed soap over his chest and shoulders, scrubbed at his underarms, and then briskly soaped his genitals, didn’t seem to be helping with the numbness.
*****
While listening to the drum of the shower, Drew took inventory and made a list of what she’d need. She always kept a little leather book with a gold pencil on a chain in her purse. It was a little hard to concentrate, knowing Dowser was naked in there.
Speaking of naked ... she went to the chest of drawers. It looked like the man owned some tee shirts, a couple of pairs of sweats and running shorts, some socks, and a spare pair of jeans. No underwear that she could see. The bottom drawer didn’t even contain clothes, but rather two sets of worn but clean sheets, though it didn’t look like he’d changed the bed in forever. She didn’t see the khakis and the linen shirt. Revise that. There they were, thrown in a corner. A yellow rain jacket hung on a hook by the door. How did anyone live with so few clothes? Next to the chest were a pair of once-white leather Adidas and some boat shoes. Those and his boots looked to be it. Drew could not imagine having only three pairs of shoes. She grabbed a pair of running shorts and marched over to the bathroom door. Steam boiled out as she cracked it open. She tossed in the shorts without looking.
He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin) Page 6
