Lover Unveiled, page 26
“Do you think I can move into Luchas House?” he blurted.
They both looked at him. And then Sarah started to cry even harder.
“I didn’t know you were so unhappy here—”
“What’s gotten into you?” Murhder rose to his feet. “I don’t get it—”
“Are you on drugs?”
“You’re doing drugs?!”
Shaking himself back to attention, Nate felt like he was in an episode of Who’s the Boss? as both his parents talked over each other in full our-son-is-an-addict panic.
Putting his napkin next to his plate, he went to get up. “I’ve got to make a phone call—”
At that moment, Murhder’s cell started to ring. “Goddamn it.” As he shoved a hand into his back pocket and then checked the screen, he cursed again and pointed to Nate. “You sit your ass back down right now.” Then he barked into the phone, “What.”
Nate glanced over to where he’d left his backpack on the counter. Maybe instead of going the lost-jacket route, he could call Mrs. Mary and ask if there was a room in Luchas House for a caretaker person type thing. It was his only shot at being there on a regular basis, and for setting up a cross-paths with Elyn: Obviously, he couldn’t work at Safe Place because males were not allowed in there—well, and he had no counseling degree or experience. And he couldn’t be at Luchas House as a social worker for the same reason. But maybe if he lived there as lower-level staff?
Because maybe he’d been wrong about Elyn leaving?
Although who was he kidding. She hadn’t called him and like that wasn’t a tea leaf he should read?
“—he’s right here.” Murhder frowned and looked across the table. “Uh-huh. Okay—well, lemme talk to him and Sarah. Sure. Yeah. Later.”
As the Brother hung up, he frowned. “That was Rhage. He said that Mary’s looking for a little help at Luchas House tonight. Guess there’s a young female moving in there and they need the furniture in her bedroom set up—”
Nate jumped out of his chair. “Yes! Did you tell him I’ll do it, yes? Yes!” He wheeled around for his backpack and fumbled to get his phone out. “I’ll text him—”
“You can sit the fuck down,” Murhder snapped, “and tell us what the hell is going on here first.”
“Nothing?” Nate lowered his butt back into his chair and put his hands in the air like it was a stickup. “I just want to help. Over at Luchas House. You know, they’re doing really special things—you know, the helping of people. Over there.”
Murhder looked at Sarah. She looked back at him. And then they both eyeballed Nate.
“I am not doing drugs.” He put his backpack onto the table and opened every zipper the thing had, flashing pockets and pouches that showed a whole lot of nothing-illegal. “And you can go through my room. Each drawer, under the bed, in the closet . . . all the jackets and pants I have. I’m not into that stuff and I’m never going to be.”
“So it’s really about the Shuli thing?” Sarah said. “I am honestly sorry—”
“No, it’s not. I mean, I thought the Shuli move was weird, but I don’t really care.”
There was a long pause while his parents x-rayed him with all kinds of what-are-we-going-to-do.
“You can always come and talk to us,” Sarah said as she sniffled and patted under one eye. “Anytime, about anything. And again, I do apologize for getting Shuli involved. I had no idea he would take it as far as he did, and I should have come to you with my concerns first.”
“Well, I’ve fixed that ‘too far’ thing,” Murhder muttered. “Trust me.”
“Can you text Rhage?” Nate asked in a hurry as he rezipped everything. “Call him? I’ll call him. I’ll go over there right now—”
“What the hell is over at Luchas House that’s so important—”
As Murhder went on another roll, Sarah got a strange look on her face. And then put her hand on her mate’s forearm, some kind of aha draining the anxiety out of her and replacing it with a soft surprise.
“We’ll text Rhage,” she said. “And of course, why don’t you head over there right now.”
“Great! SeeyouforLastMealokaythanksbye!”
Nate bolted for the sliding door behind the table, yanking back the glass and all but falling out onto the terrace. Slam-closing his eyes to dematerialize, he shut things back up and had to slow his breathing and—
Nothing close to dematerializing happened.
He stayed where he was, his beating heart skipping in his chest.
Taking a deep breath, he ruffled his arms. Refocused.
When that didn’t work, he double-checked on the ’rents. Murhder had his phone in his palm, but he was focused on Sarah and looking a little poleaxed. And as the Brother glanced out through the slider, Nate reshut his lids—
This time, he managed to ghost out.
Traveling in a scatter of molecules, he couldn’t get to Luchas House fast enough, and when he re-formed, he bolted across the lawn to the front door. He was all but choking on the excitement and the hope and the—
Well, the all kinds of everything.
Except he had to remind himself to chill. It could be another female—but then why would Rhage call? The Brother knew what was up, and come on, they had other hands on deck to help assemble furniture.
Unless they really did need help.
“Shut up,” he told his brain.
As Nate rang the doorbell once—and then wanted to push the button a hundred thousand times—he had the dampening thought again: What if it was someone else, what if they really did just need another—
The panel cracked, and half a face entered the seam.
As Nate recognized the features, he started to smile. “Hi,” he said.
• • •
Tallah was not a good cook.
As Mae started to run some water over the mound of dirty pots and pans in the cottage’s kitchen sink, she thought it had been so sweet of the elderly female to insist on making a meal the night before, but . . . yeah. In addition to her being incredibly inefficient with the utensils and anything with a handle, Gordon Ramsay would not have let that stew out of service, and probably would have thrown a couple of plates on the floor to make that point. But like Tallah had ever had to cook anything in her old life? Her previous household had been filled with doggen, and not only had there never been a reason for her to learn how to prepare food, it would have been considered way beneath her station to do so.
And since then? Well, she reheated Stouffer’s frozen dinners like a pro.
Sahvage hadn’t seemed to mind the stew, however, and afterward, when Tallah had insisted on playing Monopoly, he had humored her on that, too—and so had Mae, until she’d fallen asleep on the sofa halfway through the game. At some point, someone had thrown a blanket over her, and when she’d woken up a few moments ago, it had been to find Sahvage asleep sitting in the armchair across from her. Tallah had no doubt retired down below, and the Monopoly board, like the pots and pans, had been left in a state of post-use disorder, green houses and red hotels dotting the properties, fake money in scattered stacks cluttering up the coffee table, the shoe and the dog still on Park Place and Pennsylvania Avenue, respectfully.
The second Mae had stood up from the couch, Sahvage’s right eye had cracked open, but it didn’t stay that way. As if she had passed some kind of review—perhaps an unconscious one—he resettled and seemed to fall back to sleep.
Mae wasn’t hungry, her stomach still churning over Tallah’s home-cooked splendor however many hours later, but she couldn’t sit around.
Besides, every single thing you could put on the stovetop had been used for that stew. If somebody wanted eggs for First Meal, they had nothing to cook them in, and this exposed another truism about females of worth from the glymera.
Not only couldn’t they cook, they didn’t know how to clean up, either.
Hitting the pool of warm water with a squeeze of Ivory dish soap, she glanced back to make sure she wasn’t making too much noise. Fortunately, Sahvage’s heavy-treaded boots were in the same position, crossed at the ankle, so he remained where she’d left him.
Mae tried to stay as quiet as she could as she used a wad of paper towels as a sponge—given that she’d destroyed Tallah’s only scrubber on the kitchen floor the night before. Looked like she was developing a track record for nervous cleaning—
At the sound of a creak, she froze and looked over at the refrigerator that barricaded the back door. When the sound didn’t repeat, she took a deep breath, and told herself that even though she couldn’t do anything about whatever was outside the cottage, goddamn it, she could wash and dry the mess in front of her.
When the rack got too full, she paused with the soaping-andrinsing and reached for a dish towel—
“Oh!” she gasped. “You’re up.”
Sahvage was leaning against the open door into the full bath, his arms crossed, his lids low as he studied her. He seemed bigger than ever before, but she was beginning to expect that knee-jerk impression. It seemed like anytime she saw him, she had to get used to his size all over again.
And that wasn’t the only thing that kept making a fresh impression. His eyes. His lips. His . . . hips.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.” She started drying the pile she’d created. “I, well, cleanup is required if anyone wants to cook ever again.”
“I wasn’t sleeping. Just resting my eyes. Tallah up?”
“She usually doesn’t rise until midnight.” Mae smiled a little. “She believes in beauty sleep. It used to drive my mahmen nuts—well, anyway.”
“No, continue.”
Mae circled the towel around the inside of a sauté pan. “Tallah loved my mahmen. And it was very mutual. They were as different as could be, but they had a wonderful friendship that crossed the barriers of servant and mistress.”
“So Tallah must miss her.”
“I think she does, yes.”
There was a long silence. Then he said, “Listen, we need to talk about the elephant in the room.”
Mae had no intention for her eyes to travel down his body. But they did. And she didn’t mean for her face to flush. But it did. And she prayed he didn’t notice either of those.
But he did.
As Sahvage straightened from his lean, she swallowed hard and got real determined not to drop the pan in her hands. So she put it down.
Throughout the daylight hours, she’d had vivid dreams of him approaching her. Taking her into his arms. Lowering his lips to hers—
And every time, just before the kiss happened, the image disappeared. Over and over again. It was like a loop that wouldn’t stop, a tantalizing promise that never came to fruition.
A mirage that was ever on the brink, never on the actual.
Although with the way his hooded eyes were focused on her now, and how his body was moving toward her, and—
Sahvage walked past her and went back out into the parlor. Over next to the armchair he’d been in, he picked up the black duffle bag he’d always kept by him—and by the sounds of metal on metal, she knew what was inside.
Yet it was still a shock as he put things on the table and got to the unzipping.
“So many . . .” she whispered.
Weapons, she finished in her head.
Mae watched as his big hands went through the tangles of muzzles and stocks or whatever the hell you called them. There was ammunition in there, too, loose bullets that were long and pointy, and then boxes as well.
The gun he brought out was a small, handheld God-only-knew-what.
“This is a nine millimeter autoloader with a full magazine,” he said. “It has a laser sight. Point and shoot, literally. Using both hands. And make sure there’s nothing you care about behind whatever you’re aiming at. The safety is here. Off. On. You try.”
Under any other circumstances, she wouldn’t have gone anywhere near the thing. But Sahvage couldn’t possibly stay with them forever, and . . . well, that brunette, for one thing. That shadow, for another.
Mae’s hands were surprisingly steady as she accepted the weight from him. Then again, she wasn’t trying to do anything with the gun.
“Off. On,” she said as she mimicked his flicking of the safety.
“Here, let me take the magazine out.” After he removed a slide full of bullets, he gave the weapon back to her. “Do you see the button there on the grip. Squeeze it—that’s right, that’s your laser sight.”
Mae moved the red dot around the kitchen, steadying it on the GE logo of the refrigerator—and then the bathroom’s doorknob. After that, she picked out a pan in the drying rack and trained the beam on a chair.
“Keep the safety on at all times until you’re ready to shoot,” Sahvage said. “No holster, but you can tuck it into your pocket.”
“Even when I’m just in the house.”
“Yes. I would have given it to you before, but I didn’t want to alarm Tallah.” He nodded toward the bath. “I’m going in there to shower. Here, take the magazine, and put it back properly so you know what it’s like.”
She took the slide and reinserted it. “I’ve never shot a gun before. Well . . . alone, that is.”
“Hopefully, it won’t become a habit.”
Mae nodded and then cleared her throat. “Listen, I have to go back home—you know, to pick up some work stuff?”
“I can go with you—”
“No, no. I’m more worried about Tallah than myself.”
“That’s a bad assessment of reality.”
She cleared her throat and tried to be casual. “Look, can you just stay here? The ranch is protected, you said so yourself. Plus, if Tallah wakes up, I don’t want her to think we’ve abandoned her—or, worse, that something’s happened to me.”
“You have a cell phone. She can call you—”
“She’s not good with phones. Please, I won’t be gone long.”
Sahvage shook his head. But then shrugged. “I can’t stop you. But you’re going to take that with you.”
As he pointed at the weapon, she nodded. “Yes. I will.”
“Gimme a minute to have a shower. Then leave?”
“Absolutely.” She put her hands out to reassure him—and realized there was a gun in one of them. So she dropped her arms. “I mean, take your time.”
“I won’t be long,” he said as he disappeared into the little room and closed the door.
Left by herself, Mae sagged and wondered how she was going to get through the night. Then she thought about what Sahvage was doing and where he was doing it.
When Tallah had moved into the cottage, Mae’s father had retrofitted that first-floor bath with a modern shower—because she had insisted she might have guests. The guests had never materialized, so Mae wasn’t sure when the last time that showerhead had been called into service.
It seemed so strange to think this stranger was going to be the one to turn that faucet on.
In a way, it connected him with her father.
“I’m just going to do the dishes,” she murmured for no good reason to the closed door.
Which hadn’t closed. Not completely.
Mae opened her mouth to point out the six-inch gap to him—
Oh. Okay . . . ah, yeah. He was ditching his clothes really damned quick, the shirt doing an up-and-over, that skull with the fangs on his back making a shocking reappearance. With no tattoos on his arms, it was easy to forget all the ink he had.
And then she wasn’t thinking about any of that.
She was watching the muscles move under his smooth skin . . . and wondering what it would be like to run her hands over his shoulders. His spine. His hip . . .
Sahvage twisted around and looked back at her, the light from the sink fixture casting shadows under his pecs, the ridges of his abs, the cuts of his arms.
Mae flushed and tried to make like she hadn’t been gawking at him. “Sorry, sorry—I, ah, I was going to tell you about the door—”
“Don’t apologize.”
When she glanced back at him, he lowered his chin and stared out at her from under heavy brows. “I like when you watch me.”
Parting her lips, Mae found it hard to breathe.
“What else do you want to see?” Sahvage said in a low, guttural voice.
Balz liked to be on time.
Particularly when it came to monetizing a night’s work.
As he re-formed on the edge of a human’s out-in-the-sticks acreage, he had to move fast, but he was ready for what came after he got his cash. He was all set in his fighter clothes, his leathers and weapons in place—not that he would have come out here to this shithole in a tuxedo.
Or without all kinds of metal.
Twenty minutes and he had to be in the field with Syphon.
The trailer was hidden away on enough land so that you wouldn’t come looking for the property unless you were fencing property. The guy who crashed here was a real fucking gem, but he dealt in everything there was, and his cash was real.
So honestly, what other qualifications were required.
Hopping up the steps, he rapped on the door, which was hanging rather loose. When there was no answer, he knuckled louder and glanced at the truck. Fucker was in, and they’d made this appointment yesterday. Besides, Dave wasn’t the sort who double-booked. In his line of work, anonymity was everything. You didn’t want your suppliers to cross with your buyers or you found yourself out of your middleman job.
“Come on, Dave,” he called out. “Open the fuck—”
He pulled on the busted door as a way to rush Dave off whatever phone call he was on—
The scent that wafted out was of blood that had aged a little.
Balz already had his gun discreetly palmed, and with his vampire vision, he could see some of the dim interior. Breathing in deep, he made sure there was no one else in there.
Looked like good ol’ Dave had played his hand a little too hot.
Stepping inside, he found the man in a recline on the ratty sofa with most of his brains blown out the back of his skull, abstract art without a frame.
“Damn it,” Balz muttered as he glanced around. “I got these watches, my guy.”
The bedroom was on the other end, and he strode down to the bare-mattress-on-the-floor decor just to see—well, lookey-lookey. Somebody had busted open Dave’s Glock-in closet and cleaned it out.
