by Tessa Blake
“Answer me,” she said. “Because I didn’t want to, and for lots of very good reasons, and then you touched me and … I did want to. Badly.”
He shrugged a little, couldn’t help but feel defensive. “You could just as easily say you touched me.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have … that thing you have,” she said. “I can touch you without tanking your ability to think.”
“Bullshit,” he muttered.
“Not the same thing,” she said, testy. “Did you, like, wish I would do what you wanted, or what?”
He said the only thing he could. “I … I guess I did.”
“I ought to punch you right in the mouth,” she said. “Seriously.”
He looked back at her, struck by how unfair that was, and how thinking of it as unfair made him feel like a second grader caught doing something naughty. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’d better be,” she said, clearly fuming. “Don’t you ever, do you understand me? Not ever. If you’re going to go around taking away my right to decide things, I will walk away, and I will never come back.”
“Lily—” He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t even known he was doing it. Didn’t that count for anything?
“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I’ll go get this mark sandblasted right the fuck off me, and I don’t even care what happens after that.”
The very thought filled him with panic, and he reached out to touch her knee, thought better of it and kept his hands to himself. “Don’t say that,” he said. “I don’t know what would happen but I can’t imagine it would be good.”
“I’m not a toy,” she snapped, “or a blow-up doll. I don’t exist for your pleasure, and I don’t intend to let you bend me to your will any time we want different things.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. “I said I was sorry.”
“You’d better be,” she said again. “Promise me, right now, you’ll never do it again.”
He stared at her, said nothing for a moment. “I didn’t even mean to,” he said, finally. “I just wanted it very badly. I didn’t do anything.”
“Promise me,” she repeated, “or I’m gone. I am not remotely kidding.”
“You’re asking me not to want things,” he said. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t not want things, and it’s especially cruel of you to ask it of me when I was sitting over there behaving myself, and you asked me over here to sit with you. We already talked about this. If I want you, and I touch you, I can’t help if that … transmits itself. That’s not something I’m doing.”
“So it’s what?” she asked. “A design flaw?”
Even as mad as he was, it made him laugh a little. “I suppose it is.”
“Then you need to figure out a way to not … ” She paused, seemed to be searching for the right words.
“A way to stop wanting you?” he said, and reached for his wine, careful not to touch her. “Fat chance.”
“A way to not want something from me—that way, that capital-W wanting—when you’re touching me. When you can make me.”
“It doesn’t seem to be terribly effective anyway,” he said. “You’ve already proven you can throw it off if it happens.”
“I shouldn’t have to,” she said. “Promise me, or we’re done.”
He nodded. “I promise I will try to remember not to.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off before she could speak. “Let me finish.”
She shut her mouth.
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” he said. “This … compelling people, it’s apparently how I’ve gotten everything my entire life, even when I didn’t know I was doing it. You know how I feel about that; I told you. But with most people I can do it without even touching them, so how could I even know I was doing it? How could I know I was doing something, when just the very act of wanting something was apparently an act of aggression?”
She looked mollified, but still didn’t say anything.
“The touching matters with you, so I’ll try to be mindful of it. I respect you. More than that, I like you, and I like who you are, and I’ve already told you, I like that you choose to be with me. I’ll leave you that choice, unless I forget. And I will try not to forget, because it matters to you. But I did it constantly for the first 30 years of my life, and habits are hard to break. Okay?”
Lily gazed at him evenly, seemed to weigh what he said. “Okay,” she said.
“And I might remind you,” he said, very carefully keeping his voice even, “that I left the choice up to you that first night, Lily, and it was you who crossed the hotel suite and knocked on my door.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to do anything you like to me,” she said.
“Of course it doesn’t,” he said. “But you knew what I was, and you said you accepted it. You understood it.”
“I did,” she said. “I do.”
“Then have a care. I’ll be conscientious, and you’ll be forgiving of slip-ups. That’s only fair.”
She was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right,” she said. “Okay, you’re right. I know your heart is in the right place. I do trust that.”
“Then come stay with me tonight,” he said.
She simply raised her eyebrows at him again.
“I’m not touching you,” he said. “I’m just asking.”
“I told Miri I would call her when I got home, and she could come over,” she said. “She’s worried about me, and she’s my best friend. I want to spend some time with her, and it will be late by the time we’re done.”
“I could send a car for you,” he said.
She shook her head, leaned in and kissed him very slowly, very thoroughly. He kept his hands to himself. “I’ll come tomorrow,” she said. “I promise.”
He reached out and tucked that piece of hair behind her ear again, trailed his fingers down her neck. She narrowed her eyes; he grinned. “Keeping my mojo to myself,” he said. “Not wishing for anything. I promise.”
She rested a hand on his knee for a moment, squeezed. “Tomorrow night you can mojo me till I beg for mercy,” she said lightly. “Now get this guy to turn the car around and take me home.”
25
The knock on the door was timely. Lily, freshly changed into a pair of comfy jeans and a battered button-up shirt that had been her father’s, had just finished unpacking. She carried her empty suitcases to the door and set them to the side, so she would remember to take them down to her storage unit in the basement, then opened the door to let Miri in.
Miri, carrying a brown paper bag that very likely contained booze, looked her up and down slowly and carefully. “Well, he seems to have returned you in one piece, anyway,” she said.
“Yeah,” Lily said. “None the worse for wear, really.”
“I’ll be the judge,” Miri said, and stepped past Lily, headed for the kitchen. “Did he bring you back dressed as a hobo, or did you do that on your own later?”
“Hey!” Lily said, but Miri had already disappeared around the corner.
After locking the door, Lily followed, coming into the kitchen to find Miri sliding two six-packs onto the top shelf of the fridge. Grabbing two bottles, she turned back to Lily. “I got a pumpkin ale, or this black chocolate stout from Brooklyn Brewery,” she said.
“Stout,” Lily said, and reached for it. Miri handed it over, then uncapped her own bottle and pointed it at Lily. “First, how was Vegas? Your texts were not illuminating.”
Lily took a drink, gave herself a moment to think about where to start. “We stayed at the Bellagio,” she said. “It was amazing.”
“I bet.”
“Amazing, and intimidating,” she elaborated. “I’m not rich or whatever, but neither did I grow up in a tarpaper shack. I’ve been to nice places.”
“Sure.”
“But this— holy crap, Miri.” She opened the narrow pantry closet, dug out a big unopened bag of tortilla chips. “There’s a jar of salsa in the fridge,” she said, and jerked her
head in the direction of the living room. “Grab it and come sit.”
So they went and sat on the couch, and she told Miri about the Bellagio: about the solarium, and the exquisite food, and the way you could stand at the Penthouse windows and watch the fountains dance in the night.
“It was … ” She searched for the word, then shrugged. “Overwhelming.”
“The Bellagio, or the company?” Miri asked, astute as always. That was what made her best friend material.
Lily shook her head. “Both.”
“Okay, so that’s enough small talk.” Miri took a long swallow from her bottle of ale and set it down on the end table with a snap. “What the hell were you thinking, gallivanting off to Vegas with a stranger? You’re almost thirty years old; you know better!”
“He wasn’t a stranger, exactly—”
“Yes, he was. And not just a stranger, but someone we had agreed might be dangerous.”
“Oh,” Lily said. “I don’t think we ever said dangerous.”
Miri’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You know what we did say? Roofies. That’s what.”
“I know,” Lily said. “I know it sounds crazy, but I told you, he got me an assignment—”
“That’s super weird,” Miri said. “Like, guilty-weird, you know?”
“I wondered about that myself.” Lily took a drink, then eyeballed the chips and salsa. Thought about Ahi tuna and blood oranges, and how Gabriel’s place was probably really nice, then got mad at herself for thinking it.
She could manage to spend a night away from her boyfriend without falling apart. Even if the snacks here were plebeian.
She ate a chip, more out of spite than anything else.
“So you wondered about it … and then decided to go to Vegas with him anyway,” Miri said archly.
“I guess, yeah.” She thought about it for a moment, remembered being summoned to his office, and the offer he’d made her. “Guilt or no, it was a plum assignment. And I got great photos; they’ll be very pleased, which might mean they’ll have more work for me.”
“Well, that’s real swell of him,” Miri said, “since you would still have your old job if it weren’t for him.”
“I know. And he knew it, too. He said as much, that he wanted to make up for it.”
“Did he say he’d slipped you something?” Miri challenged. “Because I bet he didn’t admit to that.”
“He didn’t,” Lily said. “Didn’t do it, not didn’t admit to it. I mean, he didn’t admit to it either. Because he didn’t do it.”
Miri blinked at her. “Protest too much, or whatever?” she asked.
“No, I just got turned around for a second there. I’m tired. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in days.”
Miri arched an eyebrow. “So you jetted off to Vegas with a stranger, and haven’t slept for days.”
Lily felt herself blushing. Damn it.
Now both of Miri’s eyebrows lifted toward her hairline. “Oh my God, Lily, you went to bed with him?”
Lily nodded. “Listen, it’s—”
“You have rules,” Miri said. “Three dates!”
“Not rules,” Lily protested. “More like guidelines.”
“Yeah, guidelines you never break.” Miri shook her head. “I don’t understand what changed. Last time we talked, you didn’t trust him. You thought there was an actual chance he’d drugged you. Twice.”
“I know—”
“And then I get a text that you’re in Vegas with him, but don’t worry, everything is fine, you’re taking pictures and you’ll be right back. And then you’re staying an extra day, but don’t worry, we’ll talk when you get here. And now you’re here, and this?” Miri leaned forward, looked at Lily very seriously. “Let me see your pupils. Are you on something right now?”
“What— No.” Lily shook her head. “This is going all wrong. I have to start at the beginning.”
So she did, and ran it through for Miri, trying not to leave out anything. Even as she was telling it, she could understand Miri’s concern; it was a crazy story, and that was before she got to the part where her new boyfriend wasn’t human.
“You straight-up asked him if he’d put something in your drink?” Miri asked.
Lily cringed inwardly, thinking of that moment, how offended Gabriel had been. “Not so much asked, as outright accused,” she said. “It was not my finest hour.”
“I don’t know, it sounds good to me. You had a right to ask.”
“I suppose,” Lily said. “But he was really offended, and then I got upset about that, and I stormed off. Out of the hotel. And I got in a little trouble.”
She sketched it out for Miri quickly: stumbling on the scene in the parking garage, getting herself involved—not her brightest move—through to the moment when Gabriel showed up.
“How did he know where you were?”
“I actually don’t know that part,” Lily confessed. “I asked, but he couldn’t tell me.”
“He couldn’t tell you?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. And he— well, he beat the guys up. All of them. Pretty bad.”
“Well, isn’t it all very Twilight, then?” Miri said, and snorted. “How long has he been seventeen?”
Despite the seriousness of the whole situation, Lily laughed. “A while,” she intoned solemnly, in her best Edward Cullen impression, and then they leaned into one another and laughed like hyenas for a minute.
“Well,” Miri said, dabbing carefully at the corners of her eyes, “this not being Twilight, the good news is at least you managed to pick a human. But how do you know he didn’t, like, send all those guys, to trick you and gain your trust or something?”
Lily looked at her hands, tried to decide what was the right thing to do. She could just answer Miri’s question. She didn’t have to correct Miri’s wrong assumption. Letting that slide wasn’t a lie, exactly, even if it did skirt close enough to make her stomach do a tiny lurch.
Gabriel was clearly going to be an important part of her life. Sooner or later, something was bound to happen, and eventually Miri would find out the truth anyway; all it would take was the right sort of question.
Lily made a mental note to call Dr. Nussbaum and ask to increase their sessions from monthly to weekly. This was getting ridiculous, letting this neurosis about telling the truth rule her life.
But Miri was her best friend. Regardless of whether Lily was capable of omitting the truth, Miri deserved better.
“Listen,” Lily said, and took a quick swallow of her beer, for courage. “I have to tell you something, and it’s going to sound crazy.”
“So what else is new?” Miri asked, laughing a little, but her laugh died away when she saw Lily was serious. “Okay,” she said, and angled herself on the sofa so she was facing Lily directly.
“Gabriel’s not human.”
There was a very long pause while Miri looked at Lily as though she was quite sure she wasn’t hearing her right.
Eventually, for lack of any better ideas, Lily repeated herself. “I said, Gabriel’s not human.”
“I heard you,” Miri said, though her tone made it clear she was having a hard time believing her ears. “Can you elaborate on that?”
Lily pressed her lips together, trying to decide if she should say anything further when Miri was obviously evaluating her sanity and finding it lacking. But what else was she going to do? “He’s a demon,” she said.
“A … demon.” Again, toneless, neutral.
“Well,” Lily said, feeling like she was digging herself into a deeper hole but not seeing a way to do things any differently, “a half-demon.”
“Which half?” Miri asked.
It was such a ridiculous question that Lily actually giggled. “The bottom half,” she said, and waggled her eyebrows.
Miri didn’t laugh in response, nor did she look particularly amused.
“Do you … ” Lily stared at her in wonder. “You don’t believe me.”
&nbs
p; “I didn’t say that.”
“Do you believe me?” she asked.
“Unless you got some heavy-duty therapy in the last few days and learned how to lie, I believe you believe it,” Miri said, gently. “But that’s crazy talk. I think he really did slip you something.”
“He didn’t,” Lily said. “I know how ridiculous it sounds—believe me, no one knows better than me.”
“It’s more than ridiculous, honey,” Miri said. “It’s kind of crazy.”
“I know, but if you had seen—” Lily stopped short, reached for her phone.
“Who are you calling?” Miri asked
“Gabriel.”
The phone rang once, twice, then Gabriel’s voice was on the line, warm and welcoming, with the somewhat muffled sound of music and voices in the background. “Lily, I didn’t expect you to call.”
“Where are you?” she said, without preamble.
“I’m at Abaddon,” he said. “Do you need me?”
“Yes,” she said, “but I’ll come to you. See you in a few.”
She hung up the phone, capped the salsa and darted out to the kitchen to put it back in the fridge. When she came back to the living room, Miri was standing uncertainly by the couch.
“Come on,” Lily said. “Grab your purse. We’re going to the club.”
“Lily—” Miri began.
“Don’t argue with me,” Lily said. “Get your purse, and let’s go. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove everything to you.”
26
Abaddon was loud and crowded, as it had been on her first visit. The lights circled and flashed, alternately illuminating and obscuring the dancers on the floor and the mezzanine, and the music pumped out from the tall speakers, vibrating the floor below them and making regular speech impossible.
Not that Lily had any intention of carrying on a conversation until she was somewhere a little more quiet—and private. Gabriel was hardly going to want to prove himself here in front of hundreds of customers.
She looked around, spotted him coming out of the door that led out back to the light booth and, she assumed, his office. Pulling up short, she put a hand on Miri’s elbow and leaned in, pitching her voice to be heard above the music. “This way,” she said, and turned away, headed to meet Gabriel as he came in their direction.
