Relentless Flame (Hell to Pay) (4 page)

At his hangdog expression, she almost gave in to his request. Almost.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with lunch, Mr. Dante.”

“Nothing to do with lunch?”

“
Nothing
to do with lunch.”

“So what are you saying?”

Hannah blew out an exasperated breath and crossed her arms. “I’m saying thank you but no thank you.”

The big guy’s shoulders sagged. “What?”

“Thank you. But no. Now, may I brew you an espresso?”

“No, no,” he stammered. “I’ll just ...”

Mouth agape in a stunned expression that marred his chiseled face, he turned on his heel and staggered out of the store, banging his shoulder into the doorjamb on the way out.

Pressing a hand to her warm cheeks, she sighed and turned back to the espresso machine. Maybe this Dante guy was unhinged or liked to be charitable. But surely to heck he got the message now.

Yes, that should take care of Mr. Incredible. A necessary move.

Too bad. Under all the swagger and posturing, he seemed like a nice guy.

• • •

Vad i helvete?
What had just happened?

Dante wove his way down the sidewalk. When he bumped a passer-by, the man muttered at him to watch where he was going.

Rejected? Inconceivable. He held the world record for flirting. No woman had ever turned him down. Ever.

Well, his friend Peter’s wife, Allie, had acted uninterested, but that was only because Peter had gotten to her first. That was the only rational explanation for why Peter had bested him in the
flicka
department.

Therefore, Allie didn’t count as a miss on the long tally of Dante’s conquests. She’d married Peter right after their ordeal last year, and despite her obviously inferior choice of a mate, Dante respected her decision.

But what about this waif of a woman with her sweet librarian glasses? What the hell was her name? He had no idea, but he’d bet his left
testikel
this was the woman, Jessica, he needed to find.

Hadn’t he fantasized about finding a woman immune to his charisma? Hadn’t he longed for a relationship that relied only on his character and not his other ... charms?

Well, that idea was clearly garbage.

The idea bordered on insanity. The idea made his gut churn and shoulders straighten with the need to succeed in fabulous fashion now. A challenge. He loved a challenge.

But what if something had gone seriously awry with his constitution? What if this challenge didn’t hold the answer?

He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his hands. Had he lost his touch?

He looked up at the sun. Was it still there? It shone brightly.

Gravity. Did it still work? He jumped.
Ja
, he came back down to Earth.

When he pinched himself hard, it hurt. All right, so he wasn’t dreaming.

Well, now he
had
to have this woman. Had to charm her. Had to win.

Time to regroup.

Spying a young woman down the street, Dante sauntered over and flashed his never-fail, superstar smile. “Well, hello. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

The woman tucked her long, black hair behind an ear and tilted her head to the side. “Yes, it is.” She licked her lips.

Utmarkt
. Excellent.

Dante was back in the game. Momentarily unmanned but not undeterred.

• • •

The next morning, Hannah cracked an eyelid against the light filtering in her bedroom window. With a groan, she rolled off the mattress onto the hard floor and pushed herself up to stand, waiting until her ankle loosened up enough to take the first steps. One day, she’d get a normal bed with a normal frame and box spring. Getting up in the morning would be much more pleasant.

A faint snore drifted from the other bedroom. Scott must’ve come in late last night.

She glanced at her watch. Damn. They couldn’t afford for him to lose another job.

She peeked into the bedroom. Scott lay on top of the blankets, in the same clothes from yesterday. Despite being passed out, his legs shifted restlessly, like when a dog dreamed. Twitchy, constantly moving, even in his sleep. She’d never seen him jumpy like that before. Weird.

“Scott, get up.” A snore was her only reply. “You’re going to be late.”

He mumbled. “Sh’up.”

He rolled over and put a pillow over his face. It was nearly 8:30. He needed to get moving, and she had to leave soon for her own job. As it was, she’d have to walk quickly to get there on time. Her leg ached as she anticipated the fast pace.

“Come on, let’s go.”

She pushed him over, and he swatted halfheartedly at her as he swiped his matted brown hair off his forehead. This entire situation—his behavior, the crappy rental, scraping to make ends meet—all of it was getting ridiculous. She didn’t want to fight Scott. Why couldn’t he just grow up? She blew her bangs off her forehead.

“Oh, shit, my fucking head’s killing me. I feel like ass. I’m calling in.”

“No way. You’re not losing this job.”

Pulling his legs around the bed, she tugged him up to a sitting position and ignored his muttered curses. The overwhelming odor of acid, stale beer, and a weird chemical scent like a new shower liner assaulted her nose. A pitiful figure, he moaned and continued to pick at his arms.

He grabbed her hands. “Help me, sis. Come on.”

When she tried to pull away, he held tightly with his sweaty hands. She kept her long, navy skirt away from the questionable stains on Scott’s clothes.

She shook her head. “I can’t. The last time I helped you, it took me days to recover.”

“Please, I’d love you forever.” His cajoling tone didn’t fool her one bit. “You’re all I’ve got.”

But man, he really tugged at her heart sometimes. Could she heal him again? Now? She cringed in anticipation.

He let go of one of her hands to scratch his scalp over and over again. Why was he itching so much? He was acting stranger than his usual hangover.

“Scott...”

“I helped you when you needed it.”

That statement served as his best go-to blackmail move whenever he wanted her to do anything. And the worst part? He wasn’t incorrect. He’d saved her life. So why shouldn’t she relieve his pain and keep him employed? It was the least she could do, right?

Years ago, her ability had erupted out of the blue, and unable to control the power, she’d been hurt trying to help the other person. The first time, with Scott’s broken arm, she had put her hands on him and the surge of his injury had cracked her own arm in a flash. The second time her gift emerged, her mother had sliced her hand with a paring knife. Hannah still bore an aching arm and a scar on her hand as testament to the efficiency with which her body absorbed other people’s injuries.

Since then, though, she had sure as heck figured out how to hold her ability in check. Now, her control acted like a dam, restraining a massive lake at full pool. But the control was worth it. Instead of spontaneously absorbing the ills and injuries of others, now she made the call. She released the power in a conscious burst of will. A mere thought, and her body’s hungry desire to suck out pain from another person surged through the connection of skin and shoved the agony back into Hannah. No degrees, no shades of gray. She absorbed everything from the other person. Or she did not.

That’s why she had become very picky on selecting beneficiaries of her gift.

Selfish? Maybe.

But she had no idea of the limits of her power. Altruism aside, it would be nice to avoid destroying herself in an effort to help others.

After another minute of debate, she had her decision. Damn it.

Oh man, she didn’t want to take on Scott’s hangover, but they had run out of choices. He had to work at the gas station. They needed the extra $500 from his part-time work pumping gas. He’d called in too many times to continue the job if he missed another day. Huh. Couldn’t even pull off a part-time job.

She swallowed, clenched her teeth together, and mentally released the floodgates as her power exploded from the restraints. Her skin, hungry to grab the illness in Scott’s body, adhered to their joined hands as if magnetized. At the point of solid connection, she took one more breath and let go of all resistance. Her blood or cells or something inside of her reached into every pore of his body and scraped out the sickness and pain. Her gift collected every last bit of disease into a spiky ball of hell then yanked it away from his body.

His pain flowed like electrical fire up her arms into her neck and chest, threatening to explode out her head and fingertips. Unfortunately, the pain remained inside her own skin, eating away at every cell in her body like acid etching torment through every organ. Her liver swelled, stomach clenched, and muscles quivered.

Almost done.

As she absorbed everything wrong in his body, her muscles ignited in fire and a relentless throbbing drumbeat pounded in her skull. The toast she had for breakfast threatened a repeat performance. She swallowed down bile and tried to control her breathing.

Today’s transfer of symptoms was more than the typical bender recovery. Something strange occurred. She got jumpy.

Was that a figure at the window? A knock at the door? An intruder?

No. Nothing.

She blinked, unable to concentrate for all the inexplicable fear. Panic paralyzed her lungs, her heart pounded, her leg muscles tensed, ready to flee.

But no one was there. No stalker. No danger.

Edgy and irritable, her skin itched like bugs crawled all over her. Twitching an arm, she tried to dislodge invisible ants from her skin. Damn it, she couldn’t get them off of her. She pulled one hand away from Scott and scratched her skin, raising angry red lines on her arms. Still, the sensation of a million tiny insect feet marching up her body persisted.

What the heck?

When she’d helped clear his hangovers in the past, the transfer had never felt like this. More than simply alcohol, she sensed ... something else in his system. She tried to dislodge her grip, but he hung on, and with Hannah unable to focus and block her ability, the transfer continued its relentless erosion of her body and soul.

She managed to choke out the words, “What the heck did you do?”

As branches outside waved in the slight breeze, she flinched at the shadows thrown onto the walls.

Muscle spasms ripped up her back, each twitch an explosion of agony. The effort to remain standing warred with her desire to curl into the fetal position.

“What?” she yelled.

He averted his gaze, which now shone guilty but free of pain. He shook his head.

Sweat rolled down her face as she started to shake. “Seriously, what else is in your system? What did you do?”

“Nothing, I swear.” He didn’t look at her.

“You’re lying.” She yanked her hands away.

He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched. No longer bloodshot, his eyes shone with vigor, like he’d had a fabulous night’s sleep. Even his greasy hair wasn’t as matted.

Every joint in her body ached. Her stupid, normally numb foot hurt. Muscles burned like someone struck a million matches over every surface of her body, and she couldn’t stop rubbing and scratching her arms. Her head pounded. Light and sound were the enemy. Darting glances around the house, she suspected someone was lurking in the shadows, out to get her. Is this how someone with schizophrenia saw the world?

She rubbed her temples. “What did you give me? What?”

“I’m sorry. It was only once.”

When another wave of nausea rose in her throat, she forced it back down.

“Scott?” She blinked her watery, burning eyes and squinted against the harsh morning light.

“Meth. I was messing around. It was just a little bit.”

“What the heck? Damn it, what’s gotten into you?”

She picked at her arms as she continued to tweak off his meth trip. Or was she coming down from it? Who the heck knew? Unable to stop the compulsion to look over her shoulder, at least she understood the source of her paranoia.

“I’m sorry. I messed up.” He smiled winningly, smoothing out his wrinkled clothes and squaring his shoulders.

Until this morning at this very moment, she didn’t believe it was possible for her life to get any worse.

She had been wrong.

“Forgive me?” He shrugged.

When he squeezed her hand, she startled, hypervigilant, nerves on overdrive.

He brushed his hair off his forehead. “Please?”

“Just go to work. We’ll talk tonight.”

Staggering into the bathroom, she unloaded the contents of her stomach into the toilet. She was going to be late for her job, but damn it, she wouldn’t call in sick. Although she refused to lose the income, today was going to hurt. She washed her mouth out and wiped imaginary cobwebs from her face. Grabbing her purse, she threw her brother a nasty glare and staggered out into the mercilessly bright sunshine.

Hannah felt like leftovers from hell, reheated.

To make matters worse, that Dante guy had come back.

She had no patience for the man who sat in the corner of the reading area, sipping an espresso, the tiny cup disappearing in his big paw of a hand. Even while taking a sip, he managed to look manly as his mussed blond hair bobbed. He didn’t react to the hidden and not-so-hidden glances from several other customers. Disgusting. All that attention, and he just ignored it. How rude.

Didn’t the guy ever work? He dressed the part of a well-heeled, young, hip businessman who worked as a sports model on the side. Some people had all the luck. Pushing the glasses back up her nose and wincing as the movement hurt her face and her hand, she gave herself permission to feel sorry for five seconds.

All right, done
.

She tried not to grimace, but every movement shredded tight muscles. The effort not to twitch hurt more than letting the muscles quiver. She had to keep working, couldn’t mess up, couldn’t let on that she ached from her hair to her toenails. It would be beyond devastating if she lost her job. She had no place to go. There was no one who would help her. She either succeeded or failed—there was no middle ground in this scenario.