“I don’t suppose you would accept an hour of complimentary psychoanalysis?” The question sounded braver than it felt leaving my mouth.
“Oh, I’ll take the hour. And I don’t particularly care what you do during. I’m more interested in what I’ll do to you.”
My face felt like it was pulling heat from his body through the fabric of his T-shirt by some strange process of radiation connecting our skin. “One hour?” I asked. “That’s all?”
A disconcerting smile slashed across his face. “That’s all.”
“Okay,” I agreed, swallowing what felt like an egg. “When?”
“Tonight. After we spend some time sorting Rolly out.”
“And how do you propose to do that?”
“We’ll take him to a bar,” Crixus said. “I’ll show him the ropes, give him some pointers.”
“And what about your friend?” I asked, returning my gaze to the fish tank where Flick stared transfixed at the glass.
“He’ll have to come with us, of course. I’m already facing down a reprimand from the BSA because of Cupid’s little cross-country jaunt,” he grumbled.
“BSA?” I repeated.
“Bureau of Supernatural Affairs,” he explained. “They don’t like it so much when supers reveal themselves to humans.”
“What about me?” I asked. “I’m human.”
“I obtained special permission for you,” he said, glancing down my blouse.
“Which reminds me. There have to be millions of therapists in the world. Why did you come to me?”
“I already told you,” he said. “I want you.”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “You expect me to believe that? You had sex with my assistant ten minutes after dumping Cupid on my floor.”
“Well, I wasn’t getting anywhere with you.” He shrugged. “Anyone ever tell you that you have a pretty frosty demeanor?”
“I do not!” I insisted. “I will have you know—”
“Let me guess,” Crixus interrupted, gesturing to the gallery of framed diplomas hanging on my office wall. “You took several seminars in human bonding.”
I felt some of the wind evaporate from my sails. “No, it was client-patient trust and intimacy,” I corrected.
“Your bun was tighter than a dick’s hatband,” he chuckled.
“I guess that depends on the dick,” I countered. The bravado would have been far more convincing had my voice not cracked.
“Look at her,” he teased. “She fucks one lousy hit man and she’s tossing dicks around like the serving boy at an orgy.”
“There was nothing lousy about Liam.” Speaking his name brought him into this room. Into the present. Had he thought about me since that night?
“We’ll see if you hold the same opinion after our session,” Crixus said.
“What’s the saying?” I asked with mock curiosity. “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all?”
In one swift movement, Crixus grabbed my hand and pressed it against the front of his jeans. Observing the wonder and disbelief my eyes surely showed, he met my cliché with one of his own. “Seeing isn’t believing, Doctor. Believing is seeing. And soon enough, you will.”
“Will what?”
“Believe,” he said.
To my great disappointment, he released my hand. Hours later, my palm could still recall the width of what he’d pressed into it.
I made a last, desperate attempt to corral my thoughts. “So you’re taking Rolly and a leprechaun with dissociative identity disorder to a bar tonight?”
“Not I,” he replied. “We.”
“Oh no,” I protested. “I don’t do bars.”
“You do tonight. That is, if you would like me to help you with Rolly. I’ll need you to keep an eye on Flick.”
“Did someone say bar?” Flick had abandoned his rapt observation of Sigmund and was standing on the stack of art history books on my coffee table. “This lad could use a pint about right now.”
It took me a moment to decide if he was indicating yet another imaginary entity I couldn’t see, or simply referring to himself in the third person. “We did,” I said. “Would you like to join us?”
“We’d love to!”
Crixus and I exchanged looks. “Seven o’clock?” he asked. “I’ll pick you up at your place.”
“You know where I live?”
He bent to skim a kiss across my lips that left my face numb and tingling. “I know everything.”
*****
Six hours, two bipolar disorders, three cases of social anxiety, and one trial separation later, I arrived home to my one-bedroom apartment overlooking the Cumberland Bay in Plattsburgh, New York’s historic district to find a small flood in my bedroom closet. The ceiling above my head sagged, still dripping onto my already soaked clothes and shoes. Every single item I owned was sodden and flecked with an unidentifiable sludge.
The apartment above mine belonged to a New York City lawyer who only flew home for the weekends. If his apartment had flooded, it was likely the building super wouldn’t have any idea. I made a quick call and began piling the wreckage of my wardrobe near the door. Mr. Wu, my dry cleaner, would be delighted at this load.
Walking back into my bedroom, I considered my options. Only my underthings, yoga pants and T-shirts were stored in the dresser by my bed. Not exactly appropriate for the evening we had planned.
I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts to The Demigod. A number I had saved after I returned from my unplanned adventure in Las Vegas.
He answered on the third ring. “Good evening, Doctor.” Crixus had a way of saying the word that made it sound more solicitation than salutation.
“I can’t go,” I announced. “My apartment flooded. All my clothes are ruined. I don’t have a thing to wear.”
“Then don’t wear a thing.” I could hear the grin lightening his deep baritone.
“I have a feeling that the establishment might object to my lack of attire,” I remarked.
“Who said anything about the establishment? Perhaps you and I will just have to find a different way to pass the time.”
“No chance,” I said. “You are not standing Rolly up. He needs your help.”
“And I need yours,” he answered. “You don’t go, and I can’t help him. Why don’t you just wear what you have on?”
Because I dumped a mocha shake down my blouse on the way home.
“Mocha shake? Doctor, you’re an animal.”
“You have your indulgences, I have mine.”
“You should try mine,” he suggested. “Fewer calories and more fun.”
“You’re not being very helpful, you know.” I shuffled into the kitchen and took a crystal tumbler from the drain board. Consulting the liquor cabinet, I decided on scotch and poured myself two fingers’ worth neat. The liquid warmed my throat and coaxed the gathering tension from between my shoulder blades.
“How about the red dress?” Crixus asked.
“What red dress?”
“The one in the back of your closet you were thinking there was no way in hell you were going to wear. Wrapped in plastic, wasn’t it?”
“How did you—”
“Thoughts are much harder for humans to control when they’ve indulged a little,” he explained. “You’d be amazed what alcohol can float to the surface.”
“Forgive me,” I said. “It’s been a tough week. What with the kidnapping, death threats, flooded apartment—”
“I get it,” he said. “But it’s not going to get any better if we don’t sort out Rolly and Frick Frack McWhistlebutt.”
I let another sip infuse my chest with heat. “Felicitous McWhiskybottom.”
“Whatever. Put the dress on. I’ll be there in thirty.”
“Fine,” I grunted, disconnecting the phone.
Twenty minutes later, I paced the length of my foyer and tried to breathe in the shaping undergarment crushing my ribs. The moon had only begun to scatter iridescent sequins on the
backs of distant waves moving out to sea when I heard the growling rumble of a motorcycle engine.
I opened the sliding glass door to my balcony just in time to see Crixus rounding the corner on a machine of steel muscles as formidable as those of the man who rode it. He cut the engine and swung one long leg over to dismount, his boots crunching across the gravel as he strode toward the stairs leading up to my apartment.
“Okay,” I said, smoothing the red cocktail dress over my hips. “Okay, we can do this.” I caught my expression in the sliding glass door and fought the urge to bolt and grab something from the pile in my tiled entryway. Crixus would be at my door right about the time when I’d pulled the dress over my head, but before I had the chance to replace it with something more conservative.
Unwise, considering he could materialize right into my bedroom if he caught so much as an errant naked thought.
So the dress ended about six inches above the knee and revealed a solid inch of cleavage. So what? Hadn’t I seen other women wearing more revealing things to the supermarket?
Other women didn’t have motorcycle-riding demigods showing up on their doorstep.
They should be so lucky. Crixus’s voice echoed through my head. Knock knock.
At least he was making an effort. I clicked the deadbolt and opened the door.
His gaze anchored first at my shoes—red stilettos to match the dress—and climbed up my leg, following the line of my thigh until it disappeared beneath the hem of my skirt. The attention he paid to the curve of my hips might be more befitting a man navigating a coastline whose treacherous crags were capable of reducing his ship to splinters. Gradually, they followed the swell of my breasts to the bare skin of my neck and charted a course to my face.
“Fuck me,” he groaned. “Don’t you have a setting between deep freeze and incinerate?”
“Please tell me your plan for seduction involves more than vague comparisons to household appliances,” I said, giving him my back to gather my coat and purse.
“There is no way in hell I’m going to be able to help the security guard with you looking like that.”
“Odd,” I said, grabbing my keys and steering him out the door. “I managed to counsel Cupid while he was stuffed into a leather laptop bag and I was being dragged to Las Vegas to be sold to a mafioso. And I’m only human.”
“I was talking about Rolly,” he said. “You think there’s any chance he’ll even glance at another woman with you wearing a fuck-me-sideways dress?”
“You’re the demigod,” I said, following him down the stairs. “Do something magical.”
“Happy to. You want it missionary or from behind?”
“Forget it.” I dropped my keys into my bag. “You get your hour after you’ve coached Rolly. Speaking of which, where’s Flick?”
Crixus pointed to a bulge in the pocket of his leather biker jacket. “Sleeping.”
“Aww,” I said, opening a tiny gap in the leather with my index finger. Sure enough, Flick was curled into a little ball, hands tucked under his chin, eyes shut tight. “He’s kinda cute when he’s not zapping me to death.”
“They’re heavy sleepers, leprechauns,” Crixus said. “If we’re lucky, he’ll sleep straight through. I gave him a bottle before he went down.”
“A bottle?”
“Yeah. Of whiskey. Sank the whole thing and passed out.”
“Good God. A whole bottle?” Watching Crixus move beside me felt like spying on a predator from striking distance. The coiled energy in his body made me twitchy and nervous.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, supers have a thing for mood altering substances. Gods may have created man, but man created liquor. And blow. Most the reason why any of them care whether your species makes it or not is because they’re afraid there won’t be anyone left to feed their habit.”
“All supers?” I asked, casting a sidelong glance at him.
“Most,” he replied.
“And what about you? What’s your habit?”
“You mean to say Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Psy.D, Ph.D hasn’t been able to dismantle me yet?” he asked as we approached the sleek onyx and chrome beast parked at the curb.
When I shook my head, he gave me grin that could shame the Cheshire cat.
“Fucking.” Crixus looked at my dress, then looked at the bike. “Did I forget to mention that I ride a hog?”
“As it happens, you did. But you are severely deceived if you think I’m riding on that death machine,” I said. “I’ll drive.” I nodded toward the black Toyota Prius parked at the edge of the lot.
“Oh no,” he protested. “No way in hades I’m riding in one of those.”
“Well, I am. So I guess you’ll just have to meet me there.”
He leaned back against his motorcycle and folded his arms, watching me walk away.
Under his scrutiny, I slid behind the wheel, stepped on the brake, and pressed the start button. The engine remained silent and still. I punched it again. And then a third time. Nothing.
Crixus grinned at me through the windshield.
I opened my door and leaned out. “Are you doing this?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor. If I were going to insist you ride with me, I have much more persuasive means at my disposal. Anyway, it’s not surprising. Don’t those hybrids run on leaves and shit?”
“Impressive use of stereotypes,” I said. “But I just drove home an hour ago. The car worked perfectly.”
“A lot can happen in an hour,” he said.
Recent experiences had taught me the truth of this statement. I tried the button one last time and strung together a few choice four-letter words under my breath. Admitting defeat, I got out of the car and slammed the door.
Crixus rose as I walked over.
“Do we really have to ride on this? Can’t we travel by other means?” Memories of being wrapped in the solid wall of his body while my muscles convulsed in pleasure flooded my brain. While materializing was a little disjointing for a human being, the resulting orgasm helped allay any lingering concerns.
“Can’t,” he said. “I caught some pretty serious heat for materializing you with me in Las Vegas. Kind of against the rules.” His face slid into an impish grin. “But just because riding on my motorcycle doesn’t require you to come doesn’t mean I can’t make you.” His eyes softened at the thought.
The air around me seemed to solidify, then vibrate, pulling my body with it. “No,” I gasped. “Not here. Not now.”
“If you say so.” He gestured to the waiting motorcycle. “After you.”
“You first,” I said, not wanting him to watch me attempt to straddle the beast.
He swung his leg over with effortless ease, slid the key into the ignition, and coaxed the bike to a low rumble. “My lady?” he invited, glancing back.
Though I’d never known any kind of organized religion, I mimicked the sign of the cross I’d seen Flick employ earlier and hopped up. I gripped the back of the seat for dear life, managing to maintain some space between us. “There!” I said triumphantly. “I did it!”
Chuckling, Crixus hooked his elbows through the backs of my knees and pulled me down the leather seat until I was snug against his back with nothing but the fabric of my panties between me and his jeans.
“You’ll want to hold on,” he said, giving the engine some gas. We lurched forward with such sudden force that my arms wrapped around his torso as a reflex. “Better.”
Denim-clad muscles pressed against the insides of my thighs—as result of my forgoing pantyhose in favor of a long bath and a close shave. One of my elderly neighbors gaped at us like an escaped circus elephant as we passed the mailboxes. “What about helmets?” I asked.
Not that I had any particular inclination to undo the work of a solid half hour with a curling iron and copious amounts of mousse. I ignored a fleeting thought branded compensating in reference to Crixus’s earlier comment about my bun.
“You’re with me,” he said. “It isn’t
a crash you should be afraid of.”
Blood rushed from my head southward.
“I can feel that, you know.” His voice scattered like petals on the wind, and I had to lean closer to catch his words. “When your blood moves like that.”
“Why the motorcycle?” I asked close to his cheek, trying to shift the subject. “This isn’t the most efficient way to travel.”
His hands tightened on the grips of the handlebar. “I like the way if feels beneath me.”
Was there anything he couldn’t turn into an innuendo? “Any news about the gold?”
“So practical,” he said over his shoulder. “I wonder if you address all tasks with such precision.”
“Answer my question.”
“Whoever sent the note was human. I checked with all my sources. If anyone in my world was behind it, I would know.”
“How can you be so sure? What if they were lying to you?” The streets flipped by us like pages in a book, only the briefest rendering of scenes in grayscale as they emerged and disappeared back into the night. I let myself sink into the warmth of his back as cold air of early spring ruffled the hem of my dress and bare legs.
“No one lies to me. Not for long.” The hard set of his jaw revealed by the sliding headlights of oncoming traffic supported his assertion.
I was equal parts relieved and perturbed by this revelation. If it had been some supernatural party, Crixus might have had a better chance solving this problem for me. Last time, Liam had been my unlikely savior after a heart-to-heart—or something-to-something—conversation in a motel shower. There would be no Liam now. “So what’s next?” I asked.
“Next, I start tapping my mortal resources.”
“When you say tapping,” I began.
“I’ll do what I have to. If you want me to help you, I would advise against questioning my methods.” The motorcycle’s engine slowed to a chug as we turned the corner onto City Hall Place, a mere stone’s throw from where the Cumberland Bay sent the Saranac River on an exploratory mission through the city.
“I wasn’t questioning. Merely inquiring,” I said as we pulled up to a curb. “Is Rolly meeting us at Irises’?”
“He is.” Crixus cut the engine and slid off the bike, then turned, offering me his hand.
Unlucky: The Case Files of Dr. Matilda Schmidt, Paranormal Psychologist Page 3
