by Nicole Snow
Her expression is pensive, and yet there’s an odd little smile playing about her lips, thoughtful and a touch sad. It’s painfully warm out tonight, spring threatening summer in rising temperatures. Sweat begins to bead on her pale shoulders as fast as condensation beads on the bottle she lightly taps against the weathered wooden railing.
On her shoulders, on her throat, delicate droplets slip down over her skin.
Tearing my gaze away, I force myself to watch the skyline, the distant black silhouettes of mountains set against the deep-blue glow of the horizon, and not the way her tumble of pale-blonde hair clings to the dampness of her throat, her shoulders, her sweat-misted jaw.
It’s most definitely too warm out here, my skin burning and tight the longer I stand close to her.
“Not much to see out here,” I murmur, taking a pull off my beer. “But it feels like there are ghosts everywhere anyway.”
“Is Peters one of those ghosts?” she asks.
“You could say that, but ghosts aren’t real. It’s more that he’s a fucking monster in the flesh.”
Shit. I don’t mean to let that out so harshly, so viciously, but maybe something about those ruins out there sparks my hatred.
I know she’s looking before I even turn, and who could blame her? Ember stares at me, her eyes so wide, the honey-blonde fringe of her lashes trembling in such surprise, lips parted like she doesn’t know what just hit her. I almost smile.
She always seems so skittish whenever I behave like a human being.
Almost makes me want to do it more often, just to see that wide-eyed, utterly charming look.
No, that’s a bad train of thought.
I pull myself back on topic, and add, “He’s a con man. He’s come here before, bringing shady investment deals with bad lenders before he skips out and leaves his victims deep in debt. Many lose everything they have, when he was supposed to help them. Peters just takes. A total damn parasite.”
It’s a cover story. An easy one, but one that sits foul on my tongue when I know the truth.
The last time I saw Peters, he was smiling, even though his eyes were cold, flinty, and nearly inhuman behind the single hard clear window in the headgear of his biohazard suit.
In his gloved hands, vials of SP-73. He’d been unwilling to handle the lethal, newly bioengineered virus with his bare hands, just like any sane person.
But the demon was willing to risk letting it escape. Then guiding it toward innocent human beings.
“Hey, Doc?” she says softly, pulling me from my reverie. Then that soft hand is on my wrist, just the lightest touch regrounding me.
I look down.
My hand, above her fingers, is ridged and stark, white-knuckling the mug.
Fuck.
I’m letting my emotions get the better of me. And they chew through me a little more when I speak again.
“Gray,” I murmur, without thinking. “My name’s Gray.”
I don’t know why I say it. My chest goes tight the moment I do. It makes me feel like a man again, to say that name instead of my shielding alias, the character I play called Doc.
It reminds me I’m human, I think. Not this ghost caught in a single moment of burning, cataclysmic rage that defines my past forever.
Damn. Why does this girl make me want to remember that?
What it means to be a man, instead of a shade made of lies and careful half-truths?
“Gray,” she repeats, her eyes sparkling with warmth as she sighs my name like she can taste it, this soft breath slipping over her tongue past pink lips. “I like it.”
“Don’t get too familiar with it,” I growl, then clear my throat, looking away from her sharply and taking a single step. I’m drifting, but it serves to pull me away from the gentle warming touch of her fingertips. “Sorry. I must be channeling Warren tonight. He’s quite the Neanderthal sometimes, and he recently had his own trouble to deal with in town. The man was practically beating his chest.”
She chuckles softly. “I can’t really see you doing that.”
“No? You don’t think I have my primitive side?”
Her soft laughter floats over the night like quiet, chiming music. “If you want to prove me wrong, please, feel free.”
“You’ll have to wait a long time to see my temper get that hot, Ember.”
“Then I’ll wait.” She props her arm on the railing, resting her chin in her palm and taking a sip of her beer. That shy smile is back, thoughtful and distant. “I really don’t have any reason to leave Heart’s Edge, right now...and I kinda like my job.”
Fuck. That shouldn’t worry me as much as it does.
But with both Fuchsia and Peters back in town, I can sense war on the horizon.
Heart’s Edge is about to become a battlefield. With too many old ghosts like Fuchsia and Peters back, it’s only a matter of when. I just know Ember Delwen shouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
“Heart’s Edge isn’t really a place where most newcomers stay,” I murmur against the rim of my mug. “And it’s probably not a good place for you. Not forever.”
“You stayed,” she points out softly.
“I had my reasons.”
“Yeah? And those–”
“Those are things you don’t need to get involved in.” I shake my head. “What I’m dealing with...Ember, it’s not your fight.”
“Funny, I don’t know if I even have a ‘fight’ right now. It’s more like I feel directionless. With no purpose, almost, even if I do love my job, you know? Don’t think that I don’t.” Her lips quirk a touch cynical, eyes lidding as she taps the mouth of her beer bottle against that pretty red mouth. “But trying to figure you out, at least, keeps my mother focused on something besides my love life. Or lack thereof.”
I arch both brows. “Your mother’s trying to figure me out?”
“Mom’s practically stalking you.” She ducks her head, peeking at me sidelong through the tumble of her windswept hair. “Sorry. She’s just...ridiculous. But seriously, if you see her with her phone out, run.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think I should answer. That’s not something you want to be involved in.”
I swallow a rough laugh. Little imp.
She’s peeking at me, smiling, and I’m tempted to take the bait. Hell, I’m tempted by too many things when it comes to her, and there are so many questions on the tip of my tongue – her mother, her future, her love life.
Is she seeing someone right now? Someone she left behind? Is there someone for her to see here, when...well, I suppose the college boys who frequent this town would be closer to her age.
It’s a sobering reminder that she’s far too young for me, and I shouldn’t care.
I know damn well asking about her anything is inappropriate on a personal and professional level. As many times as I’ve reminded her that my business is none of hers, I need to remember the same thing.
Clearing my throat, I divert the subject. “You might want to warn your cousin about Peters. Tonight may be a charity event, but if it goes any further than this, it could be bad news.”
“I don’t think she intends to let it.” Ember shrugs, tossing her hair back. “She’s so proud about accepting help. This was the only way she’d let Peters do anything for her. Loans are out of the question.”
Loans? Bullshit.
Tell her the truth, I snarl at myself.
That it’s not Peters and his bad money Felicity needs to worry about. It’s Peters and his bad intentions. He won’t just ruin her business. He could destroy her life and he won’t stop there.
He’ll possibly get her and any number of people in this town killed, if he’s allowed to go unchecked.
But I can’t bring myself to say that.
I can’t just scare her over what may or may not be nothing, when I’m sure she won’t believe me anyway.
Hell, I wouldn’t believe the truth.
Wild stories of secret experiments, cover-ups, hidden labs...i
f it weren’t so real, I’d think I hallucinated a nightmare.
If I were her, I’d ask just how strong my beer was, or what I’ve been smoking.
I realize I’ve stopped talking, and she’s watching me, that curious light still so bright in her eyes.
I don’t know what to say, so I simply ask, “How much do you know about Heart’s Edge?”
“Not a ton,” she says. “I know my aunt and uncle moved here decades ago when there were supposed to be these huge job opportunities here, but something went wrong and it all dried up, so yeah. But they loved the town so much they stayed, opened The Nest, and had Felicity. Other than that, all I know is you.”
“There’s not much to know. Unless you like silly local legends about love and throwing flowers off a cliff when two people promise each other forever.” I take another sip of my beer, letting the loamy, rich taste of it roll over my tongue as I watch the sky. “Your aunt and uncle were right, though. The scenery here is some of the most stunning I’ve ever seen in my life. Spring always brings Heart’s Edge to life. The entire town blooms, and there’s nothing but quiet fields of flowers blanketing everything in shades of pink and blue and purple.”
She says nothing. It’s a comfortable silence between us.
Just the sounds of night, and both of us occupying our places in it, looking up at the sky as the stars slowly inch their way across the heavens with the gradual whirl of the earth.
After a while, though, she murmurs, “I like that.” Her smile turns soft, thoughtful, that pensive and hurting edge gone. “The way you speak about here, I mean. It’s almost lyrical. I’ve never heard you like that before. Happy about something besides the animals.”
My throat tightens.
I tell myself not to look at her, but I can’t help it.
It must be the beer making my tongue loose, making me forget myself. Tearing down walls I’ve put up for a damn good reason.
But it’s not just the booze that makes me see the stars in her eyes like they’ve fallen to glow against the quiet night between her lashes. It’s not just the beer that makes me intensely aware of the way she looks at me, or how it rouses something dark and heady in my blood.
It’s not just the damn beer that makes me lean closer to her, until I can feel her body heat kissing my skin, making every drop in my vein churn like molten steel.
“Ember—”
“Oh, yoo-hooooo!” a woman’s warbling, crooning voice echoes over the night, breaking the spell between us.
Shit.
I retreat a step back from Ember, sucking in a breath. We hadn’t even been that close, but somehow it felt like something was drawn between us.
But that tether snaps, now, and we stare at each other for a few frozen moments before she looks away with a faint, sheepish laugh, her damnable trademark blush back.
This girl blushes like the leaves turning red, and I shouldn’t find it so entrancing.
“Brace yourself,” she murmurs. “You’re in for it now.”
I wince. That voice is vaguely familiar, and I’m right when the door to the patio swings open and Barbara Delwen leans out with a seeking look, her blue eyes blazing with a far more gleeful curiosity than her daughter’s.
When her gaze lands on me, the way she lights up makes me feel like she’d happily pick me up and devour me in one bite. Damn.
“There you are,” she says with a coy little flip of her hand. “You thought I didn’t notice the two of you sneaking off?”
“I kind of hoped,” Ember mutters with dry humor, wrapping one arm around herself, taking a sudden deep drink of her beer.
“That’s just not fair.” Next thing I know I’ve got Barbara on my arm, hooking her hand in the crook of my elbow and practically snuggling herself against my side. “You don’t get to hog a man this gorgeous all to yourself, September.”
Fuck me. I don’t know if I want to run for my life, or kiss this overly gregarious hellion of a woman.
She saved us, whether she knows it or not.
For just a moment, something was building between us. Something that can’t be.
And Barbara, damn her for interrupting, has impeccable timing.
Maybe that’s why I don’t flinch and immediately hide when she holds her phone up in front of us and lays her head to my shoulder. “Smile, Dr. Caldwell,” she chirps.
I don’t smile.
But I endure it while she snaps a few selfies of us, then laughs and gleefully taps her thumbs over her screen, pulling away from me, her eyes glued to her iPhone. “Now this...this should net me a few thousand more followers.”
I stiffen, dread realization sinking in. “Followers?”
“Don’t you know I’ve got the hottest new Instagram account out there?” Smirking, she swipes her screen, then holds it up for me to see. “The Heart’s Edge Heartthrobs!”
I stare in frozen horror. My own face is in several thumbnails, but she’s managed to catch Blake and Warren a few times, too. Christ, Warren’s a married man.
I can’t even hold back the fury.
“Ms. Delwen,” I say firmly. “That is inappropriate.”
She flutters her lashes at me in a way that reminds me of Ember, but with the innocence stripped away – deliberate coyness, a touch cloying but too playful to be offensive. “Aw, seriously? You won’t humor a harmless old woman?”
Part of me wants to snap at her to delete them – then I remember Ember, singing in the back room at the clinic.
The wistful way she talked about her late father, the music teacher, taken too early.
As much as losing her father must have hurt Ember, it had to be worse for Barbara. This woman, his widow, must be hurting, too.
Who am I to deny her these insane, playful pastimes, if they ease some agony?
Sighing, sniffing, I look away, out over the vista. “If you must—”
I don’t even get the words out before there’s another flash and an artificial camera shutter sound. I flinch, cringing inwardly, while she lets out a triumphant squeal. “Oh my yes! That brooding profile is just perfect.”
Over Barbara’s shoulder, Ember offers me an apologetic smile. “Now you know why I ran away. Shame she followed me.”
“Oh, don’t say those things about your mother.” Barbara flicks her arm, then beams at me. “So. Doc. How old are you, anyway?”
Finally. That’s my cue to leave.
“Old enough not to answer that question,” I deflect, dipping a brief bow, nodding to both Ember and her mother. “Just realized I forgot to leave my donation for the fundraiser, and I believe they’ll be wrapping up soon.”
For a moment, as I stand, I catch Ember’s eye. There’s an amused sense of knowing there, one I understand, and yet I can’t help but retreat. It feels like we’re having a private conversation in a silent language of our own.
The lingering way she held my eyes sticks with me as I slip back inside the pub, returning the half-empty beer mug, and then escape into the night.
Peters is, thankfully, ensconced in a gaggle of women when I return, and they’re keeping each other busy enough that no one notices me as I stop by a very tired-looking Felicity’s table to slip her a check. She offers me a grateful but troubled smile, and I wonder if her relationship with Peters is going sour already.
Whatever. I need to keep my nose out of it.
I wish a small-town loan shark was my only problem.
But there’s no turning back time now.
No room for regrets, when regrets don’t change anything – and regrets aren’t living.
Except when they’re all I have, I guess this isn’t much of a life, either. It’s purgatory, the place where I belong.
And I’d be a fool to let myself think for a second it’s anything else.
Eight Years Ago
Even through the hazmat suit, I swear I can smell Fuchsia’s perfume.
It’s a soft floral scent, unobtrusive.
It used to remind me of my mother, but over the
years of working with her, it’s soured into something else. Some kind of sickly trigger that makes my gorge rise with disgust for everything it represents.
All it takes is one faint whiff – I think it’s jasmine and something else, maybe lotus – to immediately take me to that hard, cold, hateful place where I regret every choice I’ve ever made that led me to this point.
This wasn’t where I was supposed to wind up after doing my duty in Army medical. Ever since the day I signed up for a highly classified position with a Galentron recruiter, my life has been a gradual descent down an endless black hole.
Here I am. They promised me the world. I wonder if they’ve taken my soul.
Right now, Fuchsia stands outside the wire cage where the test batch of rhesus monkeys lies twitching.
Dying.
I can’t look at them.
I can’t stand to see them in pain I’ve helped inflict, whether directly or indirectly. I’m not the one who infected them with the lethal agent, no, but the fact that I’m working on this shit at all?
Fuck. I feel like I’ll have to do penance with a million animals someday to undo the pure hell my expertise has inflicted on others.
I can’t truly hear much through the insulating layer of my hazmat suit, but I can still hear them. Their wheezing breaths.
And it makes me fucking sick.
Yet Fuchsia seems wholly unaffected, observing them clinically, comparing what her eyes take in against the tablet in her hand and a full pathogen report compiled by yours truly.
“Decreased respiration,” she murmurs, preoccupied. “Weakness. Several exhibit spontaneous rupturing of arterial membranes in the eyes, resulting in profuse bleeding from the sockets. It’s fascinating, really, how quickly it accelerates once it hits the terminal stage. I’m also seeing increased mucosal production around the nostrils and mouth; they may actually be choking to death on their own secretions. Considering the genetic similarities between the rhesus and human subjects...wow.”
Wow. It’s the tone that makes me want to punch her in the face. It slips out of her mouth with all the finesse of a whore in heat.