Authors: Jaime Rush
Eric closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. He managed to grab snatches here and there, but never deep enough for dreams. He drifted into that jagged sleep, also a tease. He didn’t know how much time passed until he opened his eyes again. His chest tightened. The hallucination was back. Tawny. Ghostly, shimmering, beautiful in a flowing dress with a long scarf flowing from her hair.
“Go away.”
She walked toward him like a cat, her hips swaying, movements fluid. Her smile reminded him of the Cheshire cat, conspiratorial, mischievous. “I don’t want to. And I don’t think you really want me to either.”
Oh, he liked the seduction. It was what her presence meant that bothered him.
He turned his head. “You’re not real.”
She touched him in that not-real way, running her finger down the center of his chest, following the line of his hair just past the blazing erection he had despite the fact that he didn’t want her there.
Just to further prove how nuts he was.
“Mm, I see you do like me here. You can feel me, can’t you?”
He could, a soft, hot energy that left a burning trail across his skin. “My imagination,” he managed on a whisper. Damn, he had to get laid. He couldn’t handle this craving, this hunger. Maybe the hallucination would go away if he wasn’t so horny.
“What if I was real? What if I’m a soul fragment of a lonely girl? A dream connection, two souls meeting . . .”
“Like Lucas and Amy.”
She paused. “Who?”
He waved his hand. “Never mind.”
She continued running her hands over his chest. He grabbed for them, but his hands went right through hers.
“How come I can feel you touching me, but I can’t touch you?”
She shrugged, though her fingers trailed first around one nipple, then another, causing them to tighten painfully. “I don’t know how this works.”
His body involuntarily rose to her touch, seeking the heat of her. “If you’re going to touch me, do it where it counts.”
She smiled. “I’m saving that for later.”
“What, you going to keep coming back night after night, driving me crazy with your teasing?”
She liked the idea of that, apparently, giving him a look of interest. “Or we could meet.” She leaned closer, her expression becoming more urgent. “Find my lonely soul.”
He snorted. “Your lonely soul is hanging out with my lonely soul in Crazyland.”
Her fingers touched his cock this time, sending his body into a spasm. “Are you sure about that?” She trailed her fingers down the length of him. “Aren’t you up for a little adventure?”
“That’s an adventure in”—damn, she was taking his breath away—“insanity.”
“You’re not afraid, are you? Big guy like you . . .” Her gaze went to his cock on those last words, but her eyes and voice held a definite challenge.
“Where?”
“There’s a place where my lonely soul likes to hang out. It’s a bar called the Dew Drop Inn.” She gave him a location northwest of Annapolis.
“Oh yeah, that sounds real.”
“Well, I didn’t name it.” She planted her hands on either side of his waist and leaned down over his stomach. Her gaze, though, was on him. “Don’t you want to find out? What if I’m there?”
“Then this is plain weird. Or you’re an Offspring.”
“An Offspring? What’s that?” She didn’t seem to know.
He wasn’t about to get into it right now, not with a hallucination. “Never mind.”
She leaned lower, kissing down the center of his chest, following the line she’d drawn with her finger minutes earlier. “I’ll be waiting for you.” She stopped just short of the tip of his cock. “Then we can continue this in person.” Her dress slipped off her shoulder as she sat up. Her shoulder looked so soft and smooth, the skin above her still-concealed breast pale. “As soon as you can get there.”
And she was gone.
He shoved out of bed. “Friggin’ crazy hallucinations. Now she wants me to head out into the night and make an ass out of myself . . . to myself.”
So why was he shoving on a pair of jeans and flinging on a black cotton shirt?
He looked at his reflection over the dresser mirror as he pushed the shirt buttons through the holes. “Because you’re friggin’ crazy, that’s why.”
He had to admit, though, that a diversion was what he needed. An adventure, as she’d said. He’d elected to stay in the Tomb, their name for the bomb shelter that had been their safe haven, because of the warrant out for his arrest. Darkwell’s doing, and just because he’d gone away didn’t mean the warrant had.
He went into the bathroom and pulled a brush through his hair. He looked like hell. Eyes red and listless, skin pale from lack of sun. He looked like a vampire. He palmed some gel and spiked his hair. Not that he expected to meet Tawny at the Dew Drop Inn, but maybe he’d meet someone else in need of a romp. Chicks were hot for vampires right now; he could get lucky.
He walked toward his door, hoping Amy and Lucas, the only other Rogues still at the tomb, were asleep. For one thing, he still had a boner. For another, being around them was painful. As much as he’d once felt jealous of their all-consuming passion, the tension between them lately weighed heavy on him.
A chest of drawers was lodged in front of their bedroom door. Amy was sleeping on the floor in the hall. She looked so small and so pained, even in sleep. Lucas insisted that he be locked in his bedroom—alone—every night so Sayre couldn’t possess him and cause them harm. He kept Amy out for her own protection, but they had other issues, too.
Eric clamped his bottom lip with his teeth as he pulled his door closed. The tiny click didn’t wake Amy. The groan of pain in the bedroom did, though. She shot to her feet, eyes wide in fear. “Push it away, push it away,” she said, shoving at the dresser.
Eric gave it a hard shove, and she wedged herself through the crack between the dresser and the door frame before he’d even finished. Lucas was contorted on the bed, his face in a grimace. She crouched next to him, shaking his shoulders. “Wake up! Wake up!”
“It’s not Sayre,” Eric said after a few seconds. “It’s another storm of images.”
When Sayre possessed, he had Lucas do things, like get a gun. The storms dropped him, and as he described it, images of something terrible that was either happening or about to happen tore across his brain like an electrical current.
“No.” Amy shook her head, still patting Lucas’s cheek. “We’re not in danger anymore. No more storms.”
Eric’s chest tightened at the thought of more danger. “Maybe it’s an accident. I’ll check with the others.”
A few phone calls later and he returned. “Everyone’s fine. We won’t know what he saw until he wakes up. That should be in about five minutes.”
“Eric! He’s bleeding!” She started crying, pulling Lucas against her chest. Blood trickled from his nose. “Get me a tissue!”
He brought a box, and she dabbed at the blood.
A stab of panic hit him. “Amy . . . he’s bleeding from his ear, too.”
Her yelp of fear shot right through him. “This is killing him. I can’t . . . I have to . . .”
“Wait it out. Let’s see what he says when he comes out.”
They waited, but he didn’t come out. Her frantic gaze went from the clock to Lucas, like a mad tennis match. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty. He watched, his chest frozen.
“He’s not coming out.” She felt for his pulse. “It’s so shallow. I can’t go through this again.” She looked at Eric, pleading with her eyes.
“I won’t do it.”
“I’m not asking you to.” She kept looking at him.
“You want my blessing?”
“Your agreement that it has to be done.”
He looked at Lucas, willing him to wake so he wouldn’t have to make a choice. This was the worst storm ever. If it killed him . . . “Do it.”
She ran out of the room. He watched Lucas while she was gone, and his body tightened as though electrical currents were going through him, too. He wiped at the blood continuing to drip down Lucas’s face.
Amy returned with a small box and pulled out one of two syringes. She stared at Lucas, torn but resolute, then looked at the bluish liquid in the syringe: the antidote. She had gotten it from the botanist who found the substance given to their parents to boost their abilities . . . what the Offspring had inherited. Even the botanist admitted it was unstable. One of his sons had lost his abilities after taking it—the one who went psycho. The other son hadn’t. Lucas had refused to take it, fearful of losing his ability to foresee the future, which helped him protect Amy.
“He probably won’t ever forgive you.” He met her tear-filled gaze. “You know that, don’t you?”
“It’s not fair. We’ve been through so much. I’ve almost lost him twice.”
He took her hand. It should be him breaking down, not Lucas. “No matter what happens, your love changed him, made him stronger, better. What you two have . . . it’s incredible.”
“I know.” Her voice was a raw whisper. “I’m going to lose him either way. I’d rather he be alive and mad at me than . . .”
It killed him to watch the man who was like a brother to him and the woman who, as it turned out, was his half sister, in agony. She had risked her life for Lucas, and he’d done the same. Eric didn’t understand that kind of love, but it stunned him anyway. Watching the little ways they touched each other, the looks they traded that smacked of such intimacy, it made him feel he should leave the room. Sometimes it made him ache, though it could have just been heartburn.
“I’m sorry, Lucas,” she said on a whisper, pulling his arm into position. “I love you.” She pushed the plunger, and the liquid disappeared from the syringe. She removed the needle and threw it into the box as though it had burned her fingers.
Eric pulled her to her feet and held her, and she cried in his arms.
Some time passed. He didn’t know how much. She disengaged and lay down next to Lucas. “He’ll sleep for twenty-four hours. That’s what they told me would happen. He’ll wake . . . and he’ll be okay.”
Lucas did seem relaxed now, and the bleeding had stopped. Eric could only nod, but he wasn’t so sure. Taking the antidote was as scary as going psycho.
She held onto Lucas but looked at him. “Why are you dressed? You still can’t sleep, can you?” Her gaze flicked to the box. “Eric—”
“I’m not taking that stuff. Unless I’m bleeding like Lucas. Dying.” He wasn’t going to chance losing his abilities until Sayre was dead. “I’m heading out to get some fresh air. I’ll have my phone if you need me.” He put it in his pocket. “Amy . . . I won’t take sides. It’s going to be rough. But . . .” He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. “I’ll be there for both of you.”
She nodded, a faint smile on her face. “Thank you. I won’t tell him you agreed. That was for me.”
There was nothing he could do now. He left, feeling the pressure in his chest ease as he emerged aboveground and walked to the garage where Lucas’s Barracuda waited. Maybe all he needed was to drive. Fast. Find a remote road and hit the gas. The car kicked ass. If he ended up near the Dew Drop Inn, he could always check it out. What could it hurt?
T
he Dew Drop Inn way passed Eric’s expectations, which were of a small, quaint building with a piano player doing the standards. No, this place was a two-story, shit-kickin’ country dive, complete with a neon boot sign.
Country music wasn’t his thing, but he was craving something, and maybe he’d find it here. If a hot chick was wearing boots, well, she wouldn’t be for long.
Who are you kidding? You’re going to see if you’re crazy. Because she won’t be here and then you’re going to have to take that antidote, too.
He shoved that thought away. The parking lot was still full even at this late hour, but that wasn’t surprising on a Friday night. A couple was making it in a nearby car, and the woman’s groans were so loud they rivaled the music coming from the building.
He hated when women faked it, and that chick was definitely putting on a show. Still, the sounds of her dramatic gasps kicked his libido into overdrive, and that didn’t take much on a good day. When he was undersatisfied, overtired, and ramped up from being teased two nights in a row, it rolled over him like a wave of hot water. He adjusted his jeans and started walking toward the entrance. Music and cigarette smoke billowed out when he held the door open for a couple who were leaving. He stepped inside and paid the cover charge.
Okay, he was looking for his succubus. Several women were dressed in tight jeans and plaid shirts, as were the men. Most folks were too involved in their drinking, talking, and dancing to pay him much notice. A couple of women did, however, their smiles predatory as they took him in. Getting laid should not be a problem.
Eric walked up to the long bar covered with peanut shells to order a beer, and that’s when he saw her. More like felt her watching him. She shifted her gaze away, a shy smile on her face. She sat at the end of the bar, a full shot glass and lime wedge in front of her, an empty shot glass next to it. Not exactly his succubus, but damned close. Long blond hair, eyelashes so thick they had to be those stick-on type. Bright pink lipstick on lush lips. Her black miniskirt, paired with textured tights and red, high-heeled boots, made her legs look long. She didn’t fit in either. She turned her stool around to watch the dance floor, her gaze sliding across him as she did.
He ordered a Heineken and wandered over, his body buzzing. She wasn’t looking at him directly, but she was aware of him. Her body straightened, her fingers messed with her hair.
“You don’t want to go there, buddy,” a man at the bar said. He nodded toward the woman. “She’s cold. Cut you right down.”
He could have told the guy to mind his own business, but hey, he was only trying to save his dignity. “Thanks, man. But I’ll take my chances.”
The woman glanced at him as he came to a stop beside her, but looked back at the dance floor. He looked at it, too, taking a sip of his beer and remaining just outside her boundaries. Damn, it had been friggin’ forever since he’d been out on the scene. He suddenly felt old and out of touch, as though he’d just come back from war. In a way, he had. He’d been to the dark side of the physical world, human nature, and himself.
“Do you dance?”
The soft, sweet voice, nearly obliterated by the music, pulled him back to present. She was talking to him. Had she asked him to dance? No, just if he did.
“Not to this stuff.”
They weren’t line dancing, but most were kicking up their boots to the twangy song.
He gestured to the dance floor with his bottle. “You?”
“Only the slow songs.”
He wasn’t going to get in her face and drop a lame line or offer to buy her a drink. Or check her out. Well, not in an obvious way. He pretended to scope out the place while taking her in with his peripheral vision. The Cheap Trick song “She’s Tight” came to mind, though it was quickly buried under the song, something slower now.
She threw back her shot, licking her hand and squeezing the lime into her mouth. Damn, he wanted to lick off the drop of juice that dripped down her jaw. Now he felt right about offering to buy her a drink.
Before he could, she turned to him. “Dance with me.”
Not quite an order, and not a request either. He hated slow dancing with a woman he’d just met. Where to put his hands, how close to hold her, and for God’s sake don’t stomp on her feet.
He set his bottle on the bar. “How can I refuse?”
She stood, and he took her hand and led her to a dance floor that was rapidly crowding in with couples. She moved into his arms, not a damned thing about her cold. Her movements were a bit awkward, telling him she didn’t like slow dancing as much as she’d said. Small, brightly colored rings circled her right upper ear but not her left. The big red hoops that hung from her lobes brushed against her neck as they moved. He was way too tall for her, his hands coming down on her shoulders, leaving her hands to wrap around his waist.
Which felt good. He willed his cock not to jump to attention, but it didn’t listen, as usual. She had to feel it, but she didn’t move back. He looked down at her, but she stared straight ahead at his chest. She was worrying her lips. Probably feeling his erection. She met his gaze and smiled, but he saw nervousness in her big brown eyes.
She said, “I have a bottle of tequila back at my hotel room.”
Whoa
. He actually stopped moving. Had he heard her right?
“Tequila works for me.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m cheap. It’s just . . . I could use some company. Know what I mean?”
He had to keep the words
Hell, yes
from roaring out of him.
She’d stopped moving, too. “I swear I’ve never done this before.”
He saw something in her eyes, maybe that need, pain, but not desperation. Without another word he took her hand and led her from the dance floor. The guy who’d warned him about her now gaped as they wound their way through the crowd toward the door.
This seemed too easy. They’d hardly traded smoldering looks, casual conversation, or even names. They exited the building into the cool night.
“I’m Eric,” he said.
She covered her mouth. “God, we haven’t even told each other our names. You must think I’m a—”
He kissed her word away. She tasted like tequila, musky and rich, with a hint of lime and salt. Beneath the smoke he smelled a clean scent, like soap. She looked fragile, despite her bold request.
“I don’t think you’re an anything.”
She looked away at that, swallowing hard. “Follow me. I’m staying at a little motel down the road. I was going to head back to D.C.—I went to Annapolis on business—but I wasn’t ready to go home.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be married, would you?” he asked as he followed her to a deep yellow 1976 Mustang.
A shadow crossed her eyes, which was why he was surprised when she said, “Widowed.”
Damn. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s okay.”
It was only then that he thought of his succubus. Hadn’t she insinuated that she belonged to the soul of a lonely woman?
She paused beside her door. “Would you have backed off if I was married?”
“Depends on the situation, but definitely if you had kids.”
She started to get in, but he held her door open and leaned down to meet her gaze.
“You never told me your name.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’m Edie.” She reached out and shook his hand, which struck him as so odd he almost laughed.
Thank God he caught himself and didn’t. “Nice to meet you, Edie. I’m driving a ’Cuda. I’ll pull up to your car and we’ll head out.”
The motel, twenty minutes down the road, was as old as the car he was driving. It had about twenty units, and one car sat in the parking lot. It reminded him of the kind of place his dad, or the man he had thought was his father, chose when they went on a trip.
Edie’s long blond hair swung against her back as she walked to the door with the number 19 on it. Her unit was almost at the end of the strip of building. She didn’t turn on the light, and when he reached for the switch, she said, “Don’t.”
Ah, one of those women who only had sex in the dark. To mask their shame, maybe.
She turned on the bathroom light and closed it within an inch, letting a stream of light into the room. “More romantic this way.”
She’d invited him to have sex with her without even knowing his name and now she wanted romantic? Naw, it was shame. Was she married after all?
She walked over to the dresser. “I’ve got orange juice on ice. I was going to have a couple of drinks in the room and then drinking alone seemed pretty pathetic, so I went out instead.”
She went to work unwrapping a couple of cups, scooping ice into them, and then opening the bottle of tequila.
He moved up behind her, covering her shoulders with his hands and kneading them. They were rock hard. “We don’t have to drink.”
She met his gaze in the mirror. “Yes. I do. We do.”
Okay, she had issues. She wasn’t drunk, despite the tequila on her tongue. So something was haunting her, and she needed a drink to loosen up so she could exorcise it by having sex with a stranger. He checked her ring finger. She wore lots of rings but nothing that looked like a wedding ring, nor a telltale white band.
He pushed her long hair away from her neck and leaned down to kiss her soft skin, but she shifted away.
“Can you turn the air conditioner down?”
She was acting strange, but if she was telling the truth about this being her first one-night stand, that might explain it. Oddly enough, he felt a bit weird, too. Probably picking up her energy. He walked over and futzed with the controls, one of which was missing a knob.
She walked over with the drinks when he was done, handed him one, and raised hers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They tapped cups, and he took a drink. He wasn’t a tequila drinker, or really much of a liquor drinker in general. When you had a tendency to set fires with your mind, losing control was a bad idea.
She sat down on the bed, tucking one foot under her thigh. “When we finish these, we can . . .” She gave him that shy smile again. “Well, you know.”
He quelled the urge to say
Bottoms up!
But he did drink.
She cat-walked across the bed to her small purse and pulled out a condom. Her ass swayed with her movements and her skirt rode up the backs of her thighs. She moved with a feline grace, but she also had a nervousness that kept her moving.
The liquor was relaxing him, that was for sure. It stole over him like a mist. She twisted around and smiled. Beautiful smile. He smiled back, though his lips felt rubbery.
She crawled toward him and looked in his cup. “Finish up.”
“I don’t want—”
She pushed the cup toward his mouth. “I want you to feel nice and loose.”
“I already do.”
“More loose.” She reached down where she’d set her cup and finished hers in one gulp.
Okay, finish it up, get laid. She tossed her cup on the floor and came up behind him. Her fingers kneaded his shoulders as he’d tried to do to her a few minutes ago. He melted beneath her touch. The room even shifted, as though he were on a ship in rolling waves. His head lolled but he caught it. He was way too relaxed.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, her mouth near his ear, her breath warm against his neck.
Only garbled sounds came out. His mouth wouldn’t work. What the hell?
She pulled him down and leaned over him. “Are you all right?”
He tried to lift his hand. To speak. To think.
I’ve . . . Too . . .
His thoughts kept scrambling.
No, not right . . . not all right.
“Can you scoot up on the bed?” she asked.
She tugged on his arms, and he sloppily moved with her. His arms were like overripe celery. He felt as though he were sinking into the mattress. She leaned closer, her face warped. She looked strange in the near-darkness. Her eyes were as sharp as blades, her mouth in a tight line. And her hair . . . it wasn’t long anymore. It had a streak of a darker color. No, none of this made sense. Except now she looked like his succubus.
“Eric?”
He couldn’t focus anymore. Her mouth floated away from her face, her eyes wobbled. His eyes wanted to roll back but he fought to keep them facing forward. “Can’t . . .” More garbled nonsense.
She moved away, and then he felt something tighten around his wrist. His arm finally moved, but not his intent. Then his other wrist. Arms over his head.
The girl . . . what was her name again? She leaned close again. “Eric Aruda . . . welcome to the last day of your life.”
Then he lost the battle and his eyes crashed shut.
Fonda leaned down into Eric’s face. He was definitely out. She closed his eyelids as one does with the dead.
Not yet.
She’d gotten a couple of pills from her old neighborhood. She didn’t even know what kind of drug it was, didn’t want to, only how much to give him to knock him out.
She took the ropes she’d brought and anchored his wrists to the cheap headboard. She wasn’t going to wait long. As soon as he started coming around, she would tell him why she was killing him. Maybe it didn’t matter once his soul left his body and went to hell. It mattered to her. She’d ditched the wig and changed clothes, black pants and a moss green shirt, black boots that looked more industrial than glamorous. She pulled a knife out of her bag. Long and sharp. She had planned and daydreamed about this, but now that she was here . . . killing someone was harder than she thought. Even for good reason. The blood would leave a terrible mess for that nice man at the check-in desk to deal with. It probably wouldn’t be as easy as it looked on television. She’d cut a man once, in self-defense, but that was all reaction and instinct.