Semi-Twisted:

by Isabel Jordan

  Hunter patted her knee awkwardly. “I’m sorry. It’ll be…okay.”

  She swatted his hand away and shot him a piercing glare. “Don’t patronize me. Just tell me you’ll talk to Mischa when you get back.”

  He ran a hand over his prison-issue buzz cut in frustration. Telling her to mind her own business was probably not a good idea, given her current chaotic emotional state. “I’m sorry, but I won’t promise you anything.”

  Harper glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and the power in even that half glance was a little terrifying. It was a good thing Harper was psychic and not pyrokinetic. If she had fire at her fingertips, he’d be reduced to a pile of ash with that glare of hers.

  “Look,” she began again, “I know your relationship with Mischa has always been a little…Pepé Le Pew. And I’m sure that’s annoying as hell for you.”

  He blinked. “Pepé Le Pew?”

  She made a sweeping hand gesture and said, “Yeah, you know, she runs, you chase.”

  Pop culture wasn’t exactly his forte, and he often had trouble following Harper’s train of thought when she threw in random television or movie references, but that reference, he was pretty sure he understood. He just couldn’t believe she’d said it. “Did you just compare me to a cartoon skunk?”

  “Well, you’re certainly not the little cat with the wet paint stripe down her back,” she said, her tone positively dripping with well duh.

  Pregnancy had made this woman genuinely crazy. There was no other explanation for it. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that while I know Mischa can be infuriating, we both know you love her, and she loves you. Just don’t shut the door on the possibility that you’ll both grow up and work things out.”

  He chose to ignore the “grow up” part. “And what makes you so sure she has any interest in working things out with me?”

  She snorted. “Hello? Psychic, remember?”

  Why did he feel like her assertions had more to do with her desire to bend all people and situations to her will, and less to do with any real feelings Mischa might still have for him?

  “You know,” he began carefully, “you can’t always get your way. At some point, things will not go your way, and there won’t be anything you can do about it.”

  Harper laughed out loud at that. “Not bloody likely, my friend. Haven’t you heard? I’m semi-charmed.”

  Semi-charmed, fully crazy, completely hormonal, and least partly Machiavellian, by Hunter’s estimation.

  He shook his head. “You’re a frightening woman, Harper Hall.”

  She grinned at him. “If everyone could just remember that right up front, we’d all save so much time.”

  Chapter Five

  “You gotta pop your cherry sometime, hotness.”

  Mischa tossed back a glass full of synthetic type O and grimaced, barely resisting the urge to spit it out on the bar and claw it off her tongue with her fingers. She glared over at Benny, who’d insisted they go out for a drink after work. Her instincts had told her to say no.

  Thanks for the advice, Vi, she thought sourly.

  “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to call me that,” she reminded him. “And if you ever refer to me biting a human as ‘popping my cherry’ again, I’ll rip your arm off and shove it up your ass.”

  He grinned at her before downing his Bloody Juan, a mix of cheap tequila and pig’s blood. “Feisty. Feisty is super-hot on you. But Harper told you to play nice, remember?” He waggled a finger in her face. “So, no threatening your boss.”

  Wreck Harper’s TV night by accidently losing control of your vampire powers one time and she makes you report to Benny Scarpelli.

  So. Not. Fair.

  Thank God she’d only interrupted The Walking Dead. If her little powers malfunction had ruined Game of Thrones night, she’d probably be reporting to Fernando, the janitor, right about now.

  “You can’t keep living off the bottled stuff, hotness,” he went on. “It’s not good for you.” He grimaced. “And it tastes like feet.”

  Benny didn’t understand her desire to hang onto the last bastion of her humanity. She imagined not many vampires would.

  Benny set his drink down on the bar and glanced over his shoulder at the writhing crowd of dancers behind them. He bobbed his head in time to the pounding techno beat that was making Mischa consider stabbing a pencil through her eardrums just to make it stop.

  “Come on,” he cajoled. “There’s at least twenty humans here who’d love nothing more than for you to take a bite out of them.”

  There were probably more than that in this shithole, she thought.

  The Lair was the only vampire-owned club in Whispering Hope, other than the all-male review downtown, of course. But despite the fact that they served blood of all types and kept the place at a very vampire-friendly seventy-eight degrees at all times, actual vampires tended to avoid the place.

  And why, one might wonder, would vampires refuse to patronize a club so obviously designed with their comfort in mind?

  Just then, a buffoon with a set of plastic fangs and a cape—a fucking cape, for Christ’s sake—dropped to one knee in front of Mischa and extended a hand to her like Romeo getting ready to sweet-talk Juliet out of her corset.

  “I beseech you, my Queen of the Night,” he began in a voice better suited to a high school rendition of Death of a Salesman than it was to addressing an actual woman, “Take my blood. Make me yours. I will serve you for all eternity.”

  Mischa closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose as Benny snickered beside her. This was why no self-respecting vampire ever showed her face at The Lair.

  Goddamn pathetic wannabes.

  And just how the hell did they always manage to pick her out of the crowd? It wasn’t like her jeans, Ramones T-shirt, and Keds screamed “I’m a vampire.” The place was dark enough that no one could really tell what she was drinking, so that couldn’t have given her away. Did she have a fucking sign on her back or something?

  After taking a moment to compose herself—or in reality, gathering enough strength to avoid throat-chopping the irritating little toad—Mischa met his hopeful stare and looked down her nose at him.

  “Get up. Turn around, go home, and never come here again. You’re lucky to be human.”

  His brown eyes glazed over for a moment, and without a word, he stood up and shuffled out the door.

  She stared at his retreating form, confused.

  She turned back around to find Benny staring at her with a speculative look in his eye that made her nervous. “What just happened?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not sure, but I think you just mind-fucked him and made him your bitch.”

  Mischa rubbed her temples. “I didn’t mean to. I was just making a suggestion.” A really, really strong suggestion, apparently.

  “I don’t see the problem, hotness. You’re lucky. It usually takes centuries for vamps to develop those kind of skills. Halfers never have any super powers.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, I have a few parking tickets. Think you could, you know,” he paused, wiggling his nose like Samantha on Bewitched, “make with the vampire magic and clear that shit up for me?”

  She shot him a glare instead of kicking him in the shins like her instinct told her to.

  Again, thanks a lot, Vi. The kick would’ve been so much more satisfying.

  Benny cleared his throat and glanced away. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  What everyone failed to realize was that her powers were more often than not just freak luck and usually didn’t work out at all as she’d intended. She just as easily could’ve given the guy a suggestion and had it totally backfire on her. She could’ve told him to go away and had him instead start serenading her in Italian while attempting to dry-hump her leg.

  Yeah, that’d happened. She still couldn’t show her face in Costco, for God’s sake.

  She sighed, suddenly exhausted. “What are we doing here, Benny? I should
probably get back to the office and fill out my expense reports.”

  He shifted his gaze away from hers, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Harper thought maybe you’d want to be somewhere that wasn’t, uh, the office tonight.”

  She didn’t ask why. The wrenching pain that instantly hit her gut told her everything she needed to know.

  Hunter was being released tonight.

  Hunter had lived in the basement apartment in the building that housed Harper Hall Investigations for about seven years. She imagined Harper was planning to pick him up at the prison and bring him home. Her friend probably assumed—rightfully assumed—that having Mischa in the building when he came home would be weird. Painful.

  Like having her heart ripped out through her nose.

  So while she was mentally grousing about having to report to Benny (and threatening him with bodily harm), he was hanging out with her (when he more than likely had much better things to do), just to keep her from hurting all alone.

  Well, that settled it. She was officially the biggest bitch in the world.

  Mischa swallowed her pride and glanced over at him. “Thank you.”

  Benny cupped a hand around his ear and leaned toward her, giving her a playful smirk. “What was that you whispered ever-so-faintly, hotness? That thing you said that was so quiet not even a dude with supernatural hearing could hear?”

  She fought down a chuckle and looked away. “I said thank you, Benny.”

  His gaze shot to the ceiling and he threw his arms out dramatically. “Is this the end? Is the sky falling? Surely fire and brimstone are raining down from heaven if Mischa Bartone is apologizing to little ol’ me. What’s next? You admitting that you actually like me and that we’re friends?”

  Mischa didn’t have any friends other than Harper and Vi. And that was only because they’d bullied their way into her life and heart.

  Caring only gets you hurt.

  It was a truth she’d lived by her whole life. It’d kept her safe and whole on more than one occasion.

  But you’re not alive anymore. Why not give a new motto a try? Do the opposite of what your instinct tells you to do.

  Mischa frowned. It was a little disconcerting to hear Violet’s voice in her thoughts.

  So with a sigh, she turned to Benny and said, “You know, Benny, I could use a friend right about now. Thanks.”

  Benny’s jaw dropped comically. “Shit, are you serious? You must be in worse shape than Harper thought if you’re considering bein’ my friend.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe. Think my judgment is questionable?”

  He tipped his head to the side and considered her for a moment. “Hmmm. I dunno. Wanna make out?”

  “Blech! No way. What’s the matter with you?”

  Benny grinned and threw an arm around her shoulders. “Good news, hotness. Your judgment is fine. And,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you have yourself a new friend.”

  Chapter Six

  About an hour and six Bloody Juans later, Benny got a call from Angela, who was apparently ready to forgive him for his “butt stuff” request. In response, Mischa’s new friend dumped her at Harper Hall Investigations and lit out of there like his ass was on fire.

  Mischa smiled, a little surprised to realize she was actually happy for the lovable little loser.

  Maybe Vi’s advice was paying off, after all.

  She grabbed a file of receipts off her desk, deciding she’d work on her expense reports at home, and locked the door behind her.

  Rounding the corner, heading to her car, she ran face-first into a brick wall. She would’ve fallen on her ass if the brick wall hadn’t reached out and latched onto her arm, steadying her.

  Mischa’s brain eventually caught up to the rest of her senses and she realized it wasn’t a wall she’d run into, but a man. She didn’t even really have to look at him. The knot in her stomach told her exactly who he was.

  Her gaze moved up over muscular legs encased in battered, faded denim, to a wrinkled black t-shirt stretched across his chest—the same chest she’d laid her head on the last time she’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep.

  She sniffed delicately. There were stains on his shirt. Blood. Her blood and his.

  He was wearing the same clothes he’d been in the night she died. The night he’d been carted off to prison. The night he’d taken three bullets to the back trying to shield her.

  The night she let him think she hated him.

  Reaching down deep for courage, she looked up—way, way the hell up, because she was so short she only came up to his shoulder—and his melted-chocolate brown eyes stared right back at her.

  His hair was different. The shampoo-commercial shiny ebony locks that had reached down to just below his shoulders had been shorn in a prison buzz cut. She’d always loved his long hair, but this new cut hid nothing—not the creamy perfection of his caramel-colored skin, not the knife-edged cheekbones typical of his Lakota heritage, not the intensity in his eyes—and gave him a sharper, harder look.

  He looked…dangerous. Lethal. Like the most beautiful predator she’d ever seen.

  But most importantly, he was here. Right in front of her. He was beautiful and perfect and here…and she was staring up at him, speechless, like a dumbass. Quite possibly with drool on her chin.

  Then she noticed the angry gash snaking across his cheekbone. Without thinking, she raised her hand toward his face. “What—”

  He jerked back as if she’d taken a swing at him, letting go of her arm so quickly she stumbled back a few steps.

  When Hunter had been shot on their last night together, two of the bullets ripped through his flesh and into hers. She’d taken one bullet to the throat, and another to the chest. And neither of those bullets hurt half as much as watching Hunter’s eyes go cold as he moved away from her.

  And the worst part? She deserved that cold stare. She deserved his rejection.

  “Hunter,” she said, voice raspy, “I’m so—”

  She trailed off as he turned and stalked away without a word.

  Beside her, Harper huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Well, that didn’t go at all as I had it planned in my head.”

  Mischa blinked back tears. (Yes, vampires cry. They cry blood instead of salt water, but still…) “How did it go in your head?”

  “Kinda like that Hallmark Channel movie we made fun of at Christmas time?”

  Mischa let out a bitter laugh. Yeah, there probably weren’t any dramatic declarations of love and marriage proposals in her immediate future.

  But Harper, true to form, slung an arm around her shoulders and said the one thing she knew could help at a time like this. “I’ll be your designated driver. Want to get trashed?”

  She rested her head on Harper’s shoulder. “God yes.”

  Chapter Seven

  Violet downed her fifth shot and laid her cheek on the bar, knocking her glasses askew. “I worked with that damned werewolf for eight years—eight years—and tried every legit psychological tactic in the book to get him to quit peeing in the house to mark his territory. I even tried hypnosis, for God’s sake. You know what his wife tried that eventually worked?”

  Harper popped a greasy, fried ball of cheese, potatoes and jalapenos in her mouth and leaned forward, fascinated. “No, what?”

  “A swat on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.” Violet crinkled her nose, disgusted. “Eight years of therapy and she cured him with something she probably learned from the Dog Whisperer.”

  Mischa downed her—Jesus, was it the tenth?—shot and glared at Vi. “How does that qualify you as having the worst day ever? Hunter wouldn’t even speak to me. He pulled away from me like I was a fucking leopard.”

  Wait, that didn’t sound right. And was it her imagination, or did she just slur that whole sentence?

  “I’m sure you mean leper,” Harper said dryly. “Although I’m sure he’d pull away from a leopard, too.”

  Vi ignored Harper and lifte
d her head to glare at Mischa, the intensity of her expression marred only by the pretzel stuck to her cheek, and the fact that her icy blond hair—usually coifed to perfection—was standing up in several different directions. “Why do we always have to talk about you, huh?”

  “Because you’re my sera…serap…therapus…” She gave her head a hard shake. By God, that was a hard word. Why had she never noticed what a hard word that was before? “Because you’re my shrink!” she spit out, proud to have found an alternate word for therapist.

  Vi looked confused for a minute before throwing her hands up. “Oh, sure, bring that up. That’s just like you, you know.”

  Mischa rolled her eyes and almost fell off her bar stool as her body seemed to follow the movement. Harper grabbed her arm and gave her a shove back in the right direction.

  “Thank you,” Mischa slurred. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Harper,” Vi said, leaning over to rest her head on Harper’s shoulder. “I mean, I don’t really know you, but you’re sooooo nice.”

  Harper snorted and shrugged her off. “Jesus, you two are pathetic drunks.”

  Vi rubbed a hand over her eyes, seemingly forgetting that she was wearing glasses, and blinked at her surroundings. “What is this place? It’s disgusting.”

  Mischa agreed. The Rag Tag was probably the seediest bar in Whispering Hope. It catered to the city’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell paranormal community. Thieves, con artists, violent criminals…the place was lousy with them every night. She’d collared more than thirty paranormal bail jumpers right at this very bar. Not exactly your typical girls’ night out locale.

  Harper nodded to her plate of food. “Cheesy tots. It’s the only place in town to get them. Tiny makes them special for me.” She offered a little finger wave to the three-hundred-pound gorilla of a man polishing glasses behind the bar. He waved back and grinned, displaying a disturbing lack of front teeth.