Night Fury: First Act (9 page)

Clark smiles that mischievous smile I love and mutters, “God, it was fun watching you be all jealous over me.”

Infuriating man. “I was not jealous.”

He bumps me with his shoulder. “You were. Which brings up the questions: why were you jealous, and why do you care so much?”

Frustration causes me to bark out, “I don’t care!”

In a moment of serene clarity, my mind’s eye winks at me as the answer is presented plain and simple.

My brow furrows. I blink and whisper, “I don’t care.”

I don’t care. Not even an iota. I don’t care if Clark is dating Michelle.

I’m not in love with Clark.

“I’m sorry, Clark. I don’t care.” I look over at him and my heart skips a beat.

The hurt written on his face is impossible for him to mask. His brows rise as he mutters, “Wow. Ouch.”

There is one thing I feel I need to do to prove this sudden epiphany.

“Kiss me, Clark.”

His brows almost hit his hairline. He sputters, “W-what?”

I shrug. “Kiss me. Please.” When all he does is blink and look at me like I’ve lost my mind, I add in complete seriousness, “I need you to do this. It’s the only way I’ll know for sure. Please, kiss me.”

He swallows, leans forward and stops a hairs breadth away from my lips. His breath warms me as he whispers, “I’ve wanted to do this for years.” Then his lips are on mine.

This is not the gentle kiss I had imagined almost a million times over. This kiss is desperate and forceful, as if he is begging me to love him. And it makes my heart hurt.

My mouth opens to his, and the tip of his tongue darts out to coax mine.

It’s pleasant. And warm. And inviting—in a very platonic way. He tastes like cola and smells sweet, like apples. But...

“Wait.”

Clark’s body stiffens as he pulls away from me. He cringes. “Was it bad? It was bad, wasn’t it?”

“No! It wasn’t. It was very nice, Clark, but...”

I try to find the words. Luckily for me, Clark fills the missing spaces easily enough. He sighs, “But it’s not enough.”

A feeling of helplessness pulses through me. I feel like an asshole. “I’m so sorry, Clark. I wouldn’t have asked you to do that if I didn’t need to know. I would never lead you on.”

He nods. “I know. And in a way, I’m glad we got this out of the way. Now we know.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “It is what it is.”

Without another word spoken, he stands, places his hands in his pockets and starts to walk back to the kitchen entrance.

I whisper to his retreating back, “I’ll always love you, Clark, just not in the way you need me to.” Wide awake and needing a distraction, I look over to the barn and decide to lose myself for a little longer before I call it a night.

***

I
f you were outside looking in, Mirage would not look like a threat. With only two desks, a few whiteboards, filing cabinets up the wazoo, printers and fax machines, it would look about as dangerous as an office anywhere in the world.

Looks can be so very deceiving.

Mirage may look identical to any other office space, but it is the nerve centre of a powerful operation; one I don’t fully understand myself. A fax, email or phone call to Mirage will end a life in a matter of days. Chances are that life will meet an end by my own hand.

Such is life, I suppose.

The first thing I did when I made my way inside was turn on the radio and put the volume up high enough to make my eardrums ring.

Music and songs are strange things. They can take you on a journey so far away, so deep into your mind you don’t realise you’ve been taken away until the very last note sounds and you’re brought tumbling back to reality.

Music is a beautiful thing.

So is communion wine.

When you take music and
add
communion wine, you’re in for a good time.

Sitting my butt on the floor with my back against Clark’s desk, I open the bottle of wine and take a hefty swig. Then another. And another after that. With the music playing and the wine warming my belly, I lean my head back on the desk and close my eyes. I try to see the good in what happened tonight, but hurting Clark in the meantime sucks.

I would never hurt anyone willingly. As I think about that statement, I chuckle to myself.

I’ll kill a man, but the thought of hurting my friend’s feelings makes me ill?

Oh, man. I am all sorts of screwed up.

When the bottle of wine is pulled from my hands, I jerk upright in shock and open my eyes. Marco sits close to me and tilts the bottle of wine up, taking a swig. Snatching the stereo remote from my other hand, he turns down the music to a barely audible level and apologises, “Sorry I fucked up your dress.”

I watch him through narrowed brows for a moment before snatching back the wine, taking a sip and responding, “It’s okay. It was only water, and it was as much my fault as it was yours.”

“You looked like you were about to cry.”

I sniff indignantly and lie, “I don’t cry.”

Marco’s lip twitches. “Not sure I believe that. Everyone cries.”

Raising a brow, I ask, “Even you?”

He nods once, firmly. “Even me. Haven’t for a long time, but yeah, I’ve cried.” I snort and he asks, “What? You’ve never cried before?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I’ve cried; I just never thought you would admit a weakness so freely.”

“Weakness? Oh, no, honey, you’ve got it all wrong. I supplied the answer willingly. Freely. If you think that’s a weakness, you’re looking at it all wrong. I’m not ashamed. I have nothing to hide. I’m unaffected. I took all the power out of that weakness when I told you about it. Now try to use it against me sometime. It has no effect on me.” He smirks. “I win.”

This point is valid. And I approve. My brows rise in appreciation, and also because I may be slightly tipsy.

Touché.

The wine I’ve drunk sloshes and splashes against my brain, making my head fuzzy. I blurt out, “I kissed Clark tonight.”

Pausing mid-swig, he stills a moment before taking a mouthful of wine. “Well, I guess it was bound to happen. The guy carries a torch for you; that much is obvious.” He makes a face. “Coming onto you while his girl’s inside though—”

I cut him off with, “I asked him to kiss me.”

He doesn’t respond, just lifts the bottle to drink again.

The silence makes me edgy. So edgy, I ramble, “I loved him for a while. It was years ago though. Then I fell in love with someone else; someone I shouldn’t have. Things turned to shit real fast for me, and I forgot about him. That should’ve been my first clue. You don’t forget about people you love, right?” He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m on a roll. “So I thought if he kissed me and I felt it, it would be worth it. Because if I felt the zing, he’d be someone I could love.” Marco looks straight ahead, not giving away a thing with his expression. His face remains devoid.

I snatch the wine from between us and guzzle a quarter of the bottle in one shot. The warmth in my stomach spreads through my body until I feel tingles in my fingers and toes.

I’m comfortably numb in our shared silence.

But my mouth isn’t. “It’s just so confusing. The first experience I ever had with a man felt like it was the best thing ever. He made me feel loved, and special, and that’s a rare thing, I think.” I pause a second and continue a on a hush, “but it was all bullshit, Marco, and it fucking hurt. It hurt so much I thought I’d never recover. And that
feeling
part of my brain broke. I felt cold for a long time. Until just recently.” I breathe deeply and close my eyes as my head swims in a happy haze. “First, James, then this thing with Clark, and the dream I had about you, and I’m thinking men are just trouble and I should think seriously about turning lesbian.”

Marco’s gravelly chuckle warms me. He pries the wine bottle away from my tight grip, gently running his thumb over the back of my hand.

This silence feels safe.

I feel safe here with Marco.

His rough voice breaks through my pleasant buzz. “What dream?”

––––––––

“W
hat dream?” I repeat stupidly.

Marco turns to eye me. “The dream you had about me.”

I backtrack.
What the heck did I just say?
“I didn’t have a dream about you.”

Crap.

There’s no way he believed that.
I
didn’t believe that. I’m such a bad liar when I’m drunk.

His body shakes in silent laughter, and he shakes his head, smiling. “Yeah, you did, sweetheart. And now my interest is piqued. You can’t say something like that, then leave me hanging. I want to know what I said and did in this dream to have you swearing off men and turning into a rug-muncher,” he pauses, “not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

Still fairly buzzed, the words slip out of my overactive mouth. “You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t you. It was my subconscious. And it wasn’t a bad dream, really. It was just surprising, I guess.”

We don’t talk for a minute. Or two. Maybe it’s three—I’m not sure.

I can hear the amusement in his voice when he asks, “Why, Cat—you didn’t have a dirty dream about me, did you?”

“It wasn’t
all
dirty.”
Someone staple my mouth shut.
“I just don’t understand why it was you and not Clark I dreamt about.” Marco makes a noise low in his throat in offense, and I quickly soothe his pride with a slap to his thigh. “Oh, shut it. You know you’re attractive.”

Marco grunts his approval. “I think it makes sense.”

I can’t help it. Laughter bursts out of me, hearty and loud. “Oh, man, you’re all ego.” Straightening my face, I turn to him and utter deadpanned, “Careful. Your ginormous head may not fit through the door on your way out.”

His grin is so beautiful; I want to lick him. “Fuck, you’re adorable when you’re drinking. But that’s not what I meant.” He quickly sobers. “Your mind protects you in ways you can’t even imagine. Your subconscious plays a huge part in that, and it would make sense for you to dream about me and not Clark. Although we’re both a part of your everyday world now, in your mind’s eye, I’m the safer bet.” He lifts the bottle of wine and takes a small sip. “You could fall in love with Clark. That’s not an option with me,” he winks at me, “and that’s what makes me dream-worthy.”

I suppose that makes sense. But then, things that don’t make sense normally do when you’ve downed three-quarters of a bottle of wine on a near-empty stomach.

Something about what he just said bothers me though. “Why is falling in love with you not an option?”

His face voids of expression and he shrugs. “Because I’m an asshole.”

He says this so seriously—so matter-of-factly—my heart squeezes. I’m sad for him.

Everyone deserves love.

“I don’t think you can help who you fall in love with.” I paste on a small smile. “Even assholes need love.”

He eyes my smile. “I hope you never meet an asshole who changes your mind about that. Really, I do.”

Good
Lord
. Get a load of Debbie Downer
. “Why are you such a cynic?”

He sighs, “Because I
was
that guy who changed the good girl’s mind about loving an asshole. And now, she’s a cynic too.”

I want to be surprised by this morsel of information. Sadly, I’m not. “I bet she thought you were worth it,” I whisper. My body betrays me when my tongue darts out to lick my lips. “I bet when you were with her, you made it worth it.”

Marco groans while running a hand down his face. “You can’t say shit like that to me, pussy cat.”

Confusion clouds my mind. “Why not?”

Leaning towards me, his eyes flash. “Because when you say shit like that, it makes me want to kiss you. And if I kiss you, I won’t stop at your mouth. I probably won’t stop ‘til you’re in my bed, under me, moaning my name while I watch you come. And then Bob will cut off my dick. Literally.”

I want that. Not his dick getting cut off, but the under him part.

Oh, God. Why do I want that?

My body instinctively leans closer to him. His eyes search me, eyeing my body language. They blaze with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on. He reaches up to cup my cheek, his hooded eyes on mine. “You sure you don’t love Clark?”

I lean into his touch and rasp, “Yeah, I’m sure. Why?”

“’Cause then I won’t feel bad about doing this.” He leans down and slowly runs his nose along mine in a touchingly intimate gesture.

My stomach knots in anticipation. Placing his other hand on my opposite cheek, he gently pulls me to him. His breath warms my lips, and I suddenly want this more than anything. Our lips meet in a sweet kiss that is gentle, yet firm. This kiss is confident and wanting.

This kiss is amazing.

My eyes flutter closed as I reach up to grip his shoulders, grounding myself.

Zing.

Oh, shit.

Zing. Zing.

My eyes fly open, and I tell myself to pull away. Instead, I sit up on my knees and—lips still attached—crawl over to be closer to Marco. His strong arms band around my waist, pulling me closer into him, and although we’re chest-to-chest now, it still doesn’t feel close enough.

My hands move of their own accord from his shoulders and slide up to his neck. Without meaning to, I pull him deeper into me.

He’s pulling me into a current. I’m drowning in him.

And I like it.

Zing.

Against my lips, he utters, “I want you to come up to my room.” He places soft, open-mouth kisses onto my lips, and then playfully chews my bottom lip. “Say no.”

What?

I ask through a soft croak, “What?”

Never stopping his delicious assault on my mouth, he whispers, “Don’t do it. Just say no.”

He sounds desperate. Almost...begging.

The thought of separating myself from him right now makes me want to weep. My chest tightens. My arms lock around him. “But I want t—”

He cuts me off, apprehension lacing his voice, “
Please
, Cat. Say no.” Leaning his forehead on mine, he mutters, “Don’t make
me
be
that
guy. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.” He pauses. “I will.”