Jade's Spirit (Blue Collar Boyfriends Book 2) (5 page)

Grandma Nina had her quirks, but superstition wasn’t one of them. She went to church on all the big holidays and made everyone hold hands for grace at Thanksgiving dinner. She’d made it clear she didn’t believe in ghosts.

If she called, Grandma Nina would probably think she was crazy. But she didn’t like the idea of being alone in the house with that thing and no one else knowing. While she debated calling her sister instead, her phone rang in her hand, making her squeak with surprise.

The display said it was Brad.

Jeez, couldn’t he take a hint?

She thought about sending him to voicemail, where she would delete the message without listening to it, just like the last one, but she hated to waste the adrenaline pumping courage through her veins.

She answered with a curt, “What do you want?”

“Hey, babe! Where you at? I’ve been trying to get you all day.” His warm tone tugged at her heart. Stupid heart.

Don’t buy what he’s selling. He’s pretending nothing’s wrong.

For a second, she was tempted to follow his lead. After all, he was someone she could talk to about Mr. Shadow. But her one-sided altercation with the ghost had left her feeling oddly ineffective. She was itching for someone to push who would push back, and Brad was the perfect candidate.

She ignored his question. Instead of answering, she said, “You owe me an apology.”

He was quiet for a handful of seconds. When he spoke again his tone had lost its warmth. “C’mon, I lost my temper with you one time. You know that’s not me. In six months I’ve never done anything like that.”

Good, he was going to play. She put a hand on her hip, adopting her best Boston-bitch pose. “Yeah, you never did anything like that—until you did it. Are you going to apologize for hitting me or not?”

“Oh, real mature—making a big deal out of nothing. You know it wasn’t you I was mad at. It was Ricky. That asshole. I lost my temper and took it out on you. It won’t happen again. It was a one-time thing. I swear.”

From behind her flimsy bedroom door at the trailer, she’d heard her mother’s boyfriends spout that same promise over and over. She’d always thought she’d be immune to it, but from Brad’s lips, it sounded perilously credible.

This was the man who let her paint his toenails even though his friends gave him shit for it, the man who gave her a rose on the first of every month, just because, the man who brought her Chinese food every Friday night after work and engaged in silly chopstick battles with her that always ended in stellar love-making sessions.

It was hard to believe her affectionate, attentive boyfriend had knocked her to the floor and left her with a shiner any Boston Bruin would be jealous of. It was hard to believe he would ever do it again. How easy it would be to accept his promise. But more men than she could count on both hands had promised her mother they’d never do it again, and guess what? They were all as shitty at keeping promises as holding steady jobs.

She wasn’t going to fall into the same trap her mother had. Hitting a woman was unacceptable. Plain and simple.

“Is that what we’re calling battering these days? ‘Losing my temper?’” She washed the soup pot to keep her hands from trembling, this time with anger, not fear. “I suppose we’re calling big purple bruises ‘little tiffs’ and swollen eyes ‘misunderstandings’ too, huh?”

“Jesus.” He sighed, and she could imagine him pushing his hands through his stylishly-tousled hair. “It’s not going to happen again. Just let it go. I called the Palace. Casey said you quit. Is that true? Did you hit the road because I got over-excited one time?”

This is where her mother would have apologized. Not her.

“Let it go? Are you serious? You punched me, dickwad. My eye’s all swollen and black and blue, and it fucking hurts. You owe me an apology or we don’t have anything else to say to each other.” She swiped the dishcloth over the pot and slammed it on the counter then stomped to the living room.

“If I apologize, will you come over? I miss you, hon.” This in his bedroom voice. He obviously hadn’t guessed she was two state lines away.

The more Brad talked, the more he reminded her of every one of her mom’s boyfriends. Was there a handbook somewhere telling asshole men how to manipulate women?

“Is it really that hard to apologize?” she asked, genuinely curious.

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not the man I thought you were if you can hit your girlfriend and not even be sorry.”

“Are you? Still my girlfriend?”

She still had feelings for Brad. But he’d done more than just bruise her face. A corner of her soul had been bruised too. Not even a sorry would take that ache away.

“No,” she said. The potential for good times with him wasn’t worth the potential for more violence. “No. We’re done, Brad.”

“Then why should I bother apologizing?” He hung up.

Her face grew hot. It was anger, she told herself, not pain. “I ought to call the cops on his ass,” she said to the empty room. But then she would have to waste precious minutes on him. She was through with Brad. She’d been through with him the second she’d packed her bags back in Boston.

She hadn’t gotten her apology, but she’d stood up to him, and that had been the point. And she’d stood up to Mr. Shadow. Pride lifted her chin and her spirits. Deciding to consider the night a success, she marched upstairs to get ready for bed.

Before closing the door on the upstairs hall, she hollered down the stairs, “Don’t you get any ideas, mister. You can either stay in the basement or get out of this house. If I catch you up here, there’ll be hell to pay. You got it?”

No response.

“Pussy,” she muttered as she shut the door. That went for Brad, too.

Cower, and a man’ll walk all over you. Stand up to him, and he’ll turn tail and run.

She’d thought of herself as a runner. Turned out, she was pretty brave compared to the men in her life, both living and dead.

* * * *

Anticipating a feast was always a pleasurable agony.

Draonius remembered this, the tingling confidence that he was about to be sated. He’d known the feeling daily when he’d been free. Before the prince had chained him to this house, he would spend his days hunting prey and his nights feasting to gluttonous capacity on the decadent passions of humanity.

It had been almost too easy. His success at feeding had made him bold, and his boldness had made him reach for more.

A lowly tempter from his earliest days of awareness, he’d lusted for the prestige of a possessor. Possessors were demon lords, honored by the prince with greater access to humanity and less crippling tithes. Lords each wore a ring, which gave them the power to choose a human vessel and walk as flesh and blood, to
feel
as flesh and blood.

He’d lacked a ring, but had nevertheless found a way to possess. With the help of a mortal witch, he’d succeeded where others had failed. He’d expected the prince to be impressed, perhaps to reward his initiative with a ring. But his success had been all too brief. He hadn’t understood how fragile a physical human form was. He’d damaged his vessel beyond repair. And so he’d been punished instead of rewarded.

He blamed his little witch, Mercy. He’d thought he had seduced her, but she had seduced him, instead.

After taking possession of his new body, Joshua’s body, he had begun mating his little witch. Part celebration of their success, part reward for playing her part so well. But what he had meant as a reward had turned deadly.

The pleasure had been so great, he had lost his mind.

If she had been less radiant lying there in the candlelight, less innocently wicked with her glittering eyes and raven hair spread on the quilt by the pond, less warm and welcoming where their bodies joined, he would have been able to rein in his passion.

It was her fault. And he had punished her every day since, because it was also her fault that he still loved her despite her failings.

But none of that mattered now. Against all odds, a sensual creature had entered his prison and was settling in for a night of unguarded sleep. Even better, she carried none of the restrictions that limited his kind. She was not a believer, nor was there any protection around her aura indicating the presence of a husband or father. She was a lost little lamb. And he was lusting for lamb chops.

Ah, there. Her consciousness struck the most luscious resonance, a symphony of sensual vulnerability to accompany his feasting. It was the perfect time to usurp her dream.

He fluffed his magnificent collection of essences like a cloak of feathers. Pulling along Joshua and Mercy and the multitude of others, he loosed a surge of power and seeped up through the ceiling of the abyss.

The physical plane buffeted his simplest form, a core of spiritual substance shielded by his essences. But the melee would be short lived.

There was his quarry, calling to him through the storm like a siren, drawing him near with the promise of sustenance. At his probing touch, her sleep-exposed consciousness opened for him. He plunged inside.

Bliss. Pure bliss. She was obscenely warm, practically dripping with ripe sexuality.

Like a starving man placed before a banquet table, he gorged on every corner of the woman’s memory. It was all there for the taking, her likes and dislikes, her blackest fears, her scarlet fantasies, the multicolored experiences that had shaped her mayfly life. Not since Mercy’s awakening femininity had first called him to this place had he sensed so much potential in one essence.

He reveled in her neon exhilaration as she gyrated her scantily-clothed body for leering men. He luxuriated in her indigo shame as she pulled herself up from the floor with a throbbing cheek to watch a man she both loved and hated striding from her dwelling. Going deeper, he found her as a skinny child running down a hard gray road, tears streaking her face and anger burning in her heart. Her will hardened with a vow never to let a man victimize her the way she’d witnessed a man victimize her mother.

Strongest of all was a soul-deep thirst to be loved, truly loved, by a man.

He shivered in anticipation as he designed the perfect seduction for her.

Dream for me, my scarlet beauty. Dream and feed me.

Chapter 5

Jade woke up at an ungodly seven in the morning.
Guess that’s what happens when a girl goes to bed at ten.

Her new bedroom was pitch black, thanks to drapes so heavy they could double as upholstery. When she stretched for the bedside lamp, she felt oddly stiff as though she’d danced a double shift the night before. She yawned and a feverish moan slid out at the end. She snapped her mouth shut. It had been an utterly satisfied, morning-after sound.

“Weird.”

She blinked herself more awake before attempting the much-needed trek to the bathroom. As soon as she stood up, she said, “No way. Uh-uh. Not possible.” Her panties were soaked through, not with pee.

The dream she’d had last night came back to her, one lurid detail at a time. Her subconscious must have been dwelling on her talk with Brad, because he’d played the starring role. Dream Brad hadn’t hit her yet. He’d been the totally hot, sleepy-eyed guy who had made her toes curl with the best sex she’d ever had the night they’d met. In the dream, she relived that first night with a few alterations. In reality, she’d had to talk him into using a condom, and he’d called her Mary when he came, but Dream Brad looked deep into her eyes as he took her passionately. He told her he wanted only her. He vowed he would never hurt her, and in the dream, she believed him.

It had been amazing. But it had all been a lie. It was all in her head. No man had ever made her feel as safe and cherished as Dream Brad had. And no man ever would. Men like Dream Brad didn’t exist.

“Stupid subconscious.”

She muttered curses under her breath as she showered and dressed. A few choice words slipped out while she ate her blueberry-topped oatmeal, too. She couldn’t believe she’d had a wet dream about Brad. That asshole didn’t deserve her, not in his dreams, and especially not in hers.

The gong of the doorbell interrupted her as she stood at the sink, washing her bowl and coffee cup. She padded to the door in her bare feet and rubber gloves, expecting to see Betty McIntyre on the sun porch, because no one else knew she was here. As soon as she entered the front hall, she knew it wasn’t Betty on the other side of the door.

Full-length windows stood to both sides of the front door. Perfectly framed by the left-hand window was a guy so hot she thought for a second she was still dreaming. Dark jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt hugged his athletic frame. A sweep of honey-blond hair topped his tanned and chiseled Abercrombie & Fitch face.

She shucked the gloves and tucked them in the back pocket of her low-rise jeans. Glad she’d covered her bruise and made an effort to dress cute this morning, she opened the door with an inquisitive smile. The guy was even hotter without a pane of glass between them. “Can I help you, handsome?”

Gorgeous blue eyes dropped to take in her jeans and the cropped tee that showcased her belly-button piercing. The guy’s gaze snapped back to her face, barely touching on her breasts.