“No?”
“I’d been showing my paintings at one of the island’s art fairs to try to bring in some cash. My car needed work and…anyway, I needed money. Michael walked by one day. I remember it so clearly. He stopped and looked at my stuff, did a lap around the market and then came back. We got to talking and, I don’t know, I just got a feeling about him. Like, even though I could tell he was vain and used to getting his way, underneath I felt a connection. Like, maybe he got me and I got him? He bought a painting. The rest is history.”
The curator was watching her in that astute way again. “I’m glad you see that about him. But since he’s not here I’m going to be completely honest with you. Michael Ray is selfish. The first person he thinks about is himself. Always. He didn’t pluck you out of obscurity and involve me because of charity. Yes, he wants to see you succeed, but that’s because there’s something in it for him, whether it’s money or recognition or both.”
Cat pressed her lips together. She’d suspected as much. The fact that it came from Helen didn’t soften it.
“On the other hand,” Helen went on, “he’s going to bring a serious level of clientele to your show. You will sell, and you will be able to fix your car ten times over.”
Cat laughed. “Tell me more about him. About the two of you.”
Helen folded her crumpled white napkin next to her fork. She took her time, made sure all the edges lined up. “I was married to Michael Ray’s father, Raymond, when the boy was eight. I was told his mother just upped and left, and never looked back. My marriage to Raymond lasted less than a year; he was a demanding ass of a man who didn’t understand I could be a demanding ass of a woman. It’s how I got to where I was; I don’t know why he never saw that. Anyway, almost as soon as the honeymoon was over, so were we.
“Except that I adored Michael Ray. First abandoned by his mom and then completely ignored by his dad. I insisted on keeping in touch with him even after I’d gone. I wasn’t going to be the third adult to walk out on him. We used to have ice cream every Sunday, even after wife number three came around, and then wives four and then five. Even growing up in L.A., where kids’ views of the real world are so twisted, and even with that ass of a dad, he was a good kid. And then something happened.” She shifted on her chair, then turned and waved to the waiter for the check. “At first I thought it was just puberty but I’m pretty sure something else went on with him, too. We were close enough I’d hoped that if something was wrong he could tell me, but he never did.”
“You still don’t know?”
“No.” Helen’s gaze turned inward. “But it changed him. Made him hard and angry at first, then really, really arrogant. More so than he is now, if you can believe it. Things with his dad just got worse. It was like they were enemies; it was very strange. But I made sure to stand by him and treat him like a human should be treated. It was my hope he wouldn’t turn out like his father.” She laughed to herself. “Although at times that can be debated.”
“I admit I don’t know him that well. Our conversations have remained fairly on the surface.”
Helen stretched across the table and patted her hand. “Well, I do. And deep down he really does have a good heart. I’ve seen it. He believes in you. And I do, too. We’re partners now, Cat.”
A knot of tension started to uncoil from deep inside her. She let herself sink into her chair, relaxing in the aura of Helen’s faith.
As Helen looked over the check and took out her wallet, Cat let her gaze drift toward the kitchen. Xavier stood tall behind the counter, front and center, owning it. His long hair was tied back in a band, a black handkerchief with SHED stenciled over his brow. Deep lines of concentration creased his mouth. He whisked something now, one arm churning madly in a stainless steel bowl. He paused to wipe his forehead on the sleeve of his black double-breasted coat…then froze. As though he knew she was staring again.
As if he could feel her, too.
For the second time that evening, his eyes met hers. The sight of his—so gray as to be silver—pulled a little gasp from her throat. Maybe they glowed, or maybe it was just the reflection of the bright kitchen lights. There was power in his stare. Yearning. And denial.
Their moment couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two, but when his head bent to return to his work, she exhaled like she’d held her breath for an hour.
Helen dropped the pen into the check folder. “Do you know him?”
“Who?” Damn wineglass was empty. Cat had nothing to do with her hands.
Helen threw a pointed look at Xavier.
“No.” Cat fidgeted with a spoon. “No, I don’t know him.”
“Huh,” Helen said. Her eyes shifted between Xavier and Cat. “I recognize him, you know. I’ve seen him around town. And here, of course, when I bring in clients and artists. He’s very handsome.”
Handsome wouldn’t have been the word Cat used. Stunning, maybe. Intriguing.
“You sure you don’t know him? He looks at you like you’ve met.” Helen leaned forward to whisper like a teenager. “Like you share a secret.”
FIVE
Xavier ducked into the Fresh Powder Pub at midnight, well and painfully aware he’d purposely thrown himself directly into the world of the Primaries. The pub smelled of damp wool and tangy beer, and he instantly wanted to turn back around and lose himself in the swirl of snow.
But where would he go? Home? For once his little kitchen offered no comfort. Tonight, Cat’s image had been sewn into the chop and slide of the knife, the swipe of the spoon, the jiggle of the pan. He prayed that time would rectify that, unravel what had been inadvertently bound together. Cooking was all he had. If it became tainted by his past, he’d own nothing but his name, and not even that was his.
If he went home now carrying thoughts of Cat, the Burned Man would find his way through the front door, too. Xavier couldn’t afford that. He supposed he could take the Burned Man into the basement, apply his face to the tattered bag hanging from the chain, and beat the crap out of it, but the Ofarian ghost would come back. He always came back. In the Plant and outside.
So Xavier would force himself to stay here, try to have a quiet beer, and unwind before he ventured back up the hill to his dark house. He’d stay, because he was fucking sick of himself already, and he wasn’t going to get any better if he continued to hide.
“Hey, man.” The bartender raised a hand attached to a thick, muscular arm. “I know you.”
Xavier’s eyes darted around the pub. There were very few open seats, but those who were drinking didn’t look Hollywood. “You do?”
“Yeah. Few years back. You took my class.” The bartender nodded at the door, east, toward the small boxing gym at the bottom of Groundcherry Street.
“Oh, yeah.” This guy had shown him how to throw a punch. How to make sure he gave as good as he got. “Ryan, right?”
“Yep. Never seen you here before.”
“Never been in here before.”
Ryan grinned, turned his baseball cap backward. “There’s a seat free down at the end.”
Perfect. The last bar stool, tucked against the back wall and near the short hallway that led to the bathrooms. He tugged the rubber band out of his hair, feeling a few strands rip, and let it fall around his face, an extra layer of protection. Ryan slid a pint of a reddish ale in front of him and said, “Try this. Local brew.”
Xavier nodded in thanks, wrapped his fingers around the cold glass, and started to feel easier about his decision to come. This was all so ordinary, and no one seemed to care whether he sat there or not.
“So the insanity starts again,” Ryan said, leaning against the mini-fridge and propping his foot on a shelf below the bar. “Read that Turnkorner’ll break attendance records this year.”
Xavier grunted and sipped his beer, and let Ryan’s well-meaning but inane chatter keep his mind from tripping into darker thoughts. The beer eased into his belly and slipped into his bloodstream. He’d never been a big drin
ker, though he’d had a few rough nights here and there. Women had been his drug of choice. But now the Primary world—this tiny planet centered around the comfortable vinyl chair and filled with the soft drone of local voices—tucked itself around him and he was satisfied.
“Oh, hello.” Ryan pushed to his feet.
And the world dropped out from under Xavier’s.
He knew before he saw. The hair stood up on his forearms. Dread and excitement danced in his gut. A gust of something colder than winter whooshed across his body. Though he didn’t want to turn, his traitorous body swiveled on the chair, following the line made by Ryan’s gape.
Cat stood in the Fresh Powder doorway, snow billowing behind her. The red hat was back, that silly pompom flecked with white. She swept it off, shook the snow to the floor, then shrugged out of her coat. The wall pegs were already crammed with winter gear and she draped hers precariously on top. She’d replaced the short skirt from dinner with jeans but she still wore the sexy sweater that showed her shoulders.
She was alone. And she was here. In a bar he’d walked by a million times but had never entered.
Had she followed him again?
She innocently craned her neck, looking for an empty seat. Looking unsure about being there. Through the shifting bodies, she found Xavier and froze. No, the whole bar froze. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The hard beat of Xavier’s heart hurt. He knew he should face the bar again, hunch his shoulders. He knew he should give her a pretty strong hint to go away.
He didn’t.
A shy smile tugged at her lips and the bar blurred back into motion. So did she, coming tentatively toward him. He should have gotten the hell out of there, but the pub was long and narrow, with a small path between the bar lining one side and the occupied highboy tables on the other. Even if he shoved to his feet and went for the door, he’d run into her. So he held his ground and watched her approach. The conqueror bearing down on the defeated.
Behind the bar, Ryan switched on a voice with a clear invitation. “Hi there. What can I get you?”
Cat must not have heard him, because she reached Xavier and stood as close to him as she had on the street. Closer even. The pub boiled hot. He hadn’t showered after work and a new layer of sweat broke out over the old.
Melting snowflakes made the ends of her hair glitter and he stared like a baby watching shiny things.
Three seconds. Three seconds. Three seconds. Shit, how long had it been?
Her smile started to shake. “I asked the concierge at the Margaret to recommend a local pub. I had no idea you’d be here.”
Ryan wagged a finger between them. “You two know each other?”
“No,” Xavier and Cat said at the same time.
“But I can change that,” she said, and her smile turned into a brilliant jewel. “I’m Cat.”
Her throaty, wind-wracked voice made him rock on his seat. The movement told his mind what his body already knew: he’d grown hard and was only getting harder. This goddamn body. If he could abandon it in a cold, lonely hole, he would.
Ah, good, whispered the Burned Man close to his ear, and Xavier closed his eyes against the repulsive sound. She came back to you. She wants it.
He could sense the awkwardness surrounding him, and when he opened his eyes he saw it straight up. Cat gazed back at him with an odd look, and he knew she was considering whether or not he was crazy. Ryan’s eyebrow crooked in a clear What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?
This is what the Burned Man had done to him, and Xavier hated it most of all: how his hang-ups made him appear to the Primaries he was trying to imitate.
Look at her. The Burned Man’s smugness invaded Xavier’s brain with barbed spikes. You can just tell how good she’ll feel around your dick.
Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.
I’m part of you. You can’t ignore me.
Maybe Xavier couldn’t ignore the Ofarian ghost…but he could talk right over him. Drown him out.
Xavier looked her right in her toffee-colored eyes. “Short for Catherine?”
Her smile nudged its way back. Her bare shoulders dropped, relaxing. She shook her head, one long wave of hair falling over her shoulder. It swayed over her chest and he refused to give in to its temptation.
Never knew you for a tit man. Just two roadblocks on the way to the real goal.
“Caterina, actually. And you’re Xavier.”
He played along. “How’d you know that?”
“The, uh, blond woman at Shed. It’s a great name. Xavier. Any story behind it?”
“Not an interesting one.” Just a pathetic one.
All this talking, 267X. It’s not like you. You’re just delaying the inevitable.
Instinctively Xavier’s body started to tense, but he fought it. Ground his teeth against it, determined not to give the Burned Man any satisfaction or acknowledgement. Determined not to give Cat or anyone else any more clues that he was seriously Fucked Up.
He took a giant swig of his beer.
Ryan tapped the bar in front of Cat. “What’re you drinking?”
She swiped at her hair, now damp on the bottom half from the melted snow, and let out a short laugh. “Maybe I shouldn’t have any more. Had too much wine at dinner. Look how brave it made me. Maybe a glass of water? With ice?”
“You got it.”
Ryan left. Xavier’s fingers started to twitch, his thumb and forefinger pinching together over and over, longing for a chef’s knife. It wasn’t too late to get up. It wasn’t too late to…
Cat pressed a hand to her forehead. Though she wore all sorts of shimmery makeup that made her face glow, her fingernails were short and unpainted, the skin around them ragged.
“Jeez, I feel like a stalker. Really, I’m not. I swear. I came in on the red-eye this morning from Florida and I’m beyond tired. Figured I’d try to stay awake for a bit to adjust to the time change—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together.
He realized, with a sort of virgin fascination, that she was nervous. To be around him.
“Well, Xavier, it was nice of you to allow me to embarrass myself in front of you. Again. I’ll leave you to your drink.” She gave this endearing salute with two fingers and started to turn away.
You won’t let her leave. You want inside her.
“You’re from Florida?” Xavier asked.
Atta boy, chuckled the Burned Man.
She peered at him. “You thought I’m from L.A, didn’t you?” He nodded. “Shame on you.”
Ryan slid a tall, narrow glass of water in front of Cat. Though he moved away, he still watched her.
Don’t worry about him. I brought her for you.
“You’re not part of the whole Hollywood thing?” Xavier’s voice sounded loud to his own ears, but the Burned Man’s mumblings faded a bit into the background and he felt encouraged. A little pumped up, even.
“Noooo.” She waved her hands as if warding off evil. “I’m a bartender. And a painter. I’m here to open my first show at the Drift Gallery. You know it?”
“Yeah. Sure.” He traced a water ring on the bar with his finger. “That woman you had dinner with, she works there, right?”
By the way Cat smiled, he realized he’d revealed just how much he’d stared at her during dinner. “Helen Wolfe. She owns it. Do you know her?”
He shook his head. The Drift was for the wealthy tourists, not people like him.
Xavier still faced the bar, and with the lack of seats, Cat had sort of wedged herself between him and the guy on the next stool. Her arm, clad in that fuzzy red sweater, stretched long beside Xavier, boxing him in, sending his opposite shoulder into the wall. She held her water glass and absently began to stroke her thumb and forefinger up and down it, drawing seeping lines through its sweat.
The Burned Man lifted his gravelly voice. Check that out. That could be you.
But Xavier had already latched on to the movement. He tore his eyes away and swept them toward the ceiling. His wh
ole body thrummed, tuned to every one of her breaths, every little flinch.
“On the street this morning, I really thought I recognized you.”
He coughed and clenched his pint glass. “You don’t. Believe me.”
“No, I know that now. Still, there’s something about you. Can’t put my finger on it.”
The low, dreamy tone in her voice drew his eyes back to her. Every time he did that—looked away and then looked back—the sight of her struck him. A full-body blow. Except now it wasn’t just her face and mouth and legs and shoulders that left him bruised and wanting more. The humor in her words, the ease with which she’d approached him—several times now—awed him. She walked around with this casual, comfortable air, and he wished he owned that, too.
Her palm circled in front of his face, as though she were trying to divine a memory from the atmosphere. “Ah, well. It’s probably something dumb, like you remind me of someone from high school or someone I met on the road.”
Xavier knew she’d given him an opening, an opportunity to make real conversation—something he’d never done with any woman except Pam since moving here—but he couldn’t get his mouth to work. And the Burned Man’s suggestions were getting even more vulgar and nasty, morphing into bugs that wiggled through his ears, ate at his brain, and tried to put words in his mouth. If he talked, he feared what might come out.
That’s right. Years ago you would have just told her you wanted to fuck her and she would have let you. Weak women love that, when you take control. Do it now, 267X.
Caterina was no weak woman. And that realization nearly pushed him off his chair.
Suddenly she frowned and reached into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a buzzing phone. “What does he want at this hour?” she mumbled, reading whatever it said on the screen. Then she turned it off with a “Sorry about that,” and lifted her eyes back to his. “My sponsor, I guess you could call him. Double checking on a dinner we have tomorrow. Apparently he doesn’t sleep.”
A Taste of Ice (The Elementals) Page 5
