Wild Things

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that. I’m just upset. I—”

  Mason cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him, stilling her words. Her lips were parted, and Mason took advantage, sweeping his tongue between them. He tugged at her again, and Jasmine lost her balance and landed against him.

  Heat flowed around him, embracing him like a lover. Mason ran his hand down Jasmine’s back, catching on her bra beneath her thin shirt. He stopped his touch at her waist, knowing she’d scramble away if he took his hand to her backside. He wasn’t ready for her to push away yet, wanting this warm kiss to go on.

  Jasmine’s heartbeat sped as her breasts crushed against his chest, her pulse high under his fingertips. She tasted fresh like clear water, smelled of the flowers that twined the porch posts. Being inside her would bring deep satisfaction and a restfulness Mason hadn’t known since … well, he’d never known such things.

  Mason was wildness, and Jasmine was peace. He spread his hand across her back and scooped her closer.

  Jasmine abruptly jerked her head back, breaking the kiss, though she didn’t try to pull from his embrace. “No. You’re gorgeous and all, Mason, but I shouldn’t do this.”

  Mason’s skin was fever hot, his mouth not happy that the cool smoothness of her lips had gone. “Do what?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  “Take advantage of you.” Jasmine touched a finger to his lips. “I’m upset, and I’m going for reassurance. That’s not fair to you.”

  Not fair to him? What the hell was she talking about?

  Jasmine put gentle hands on his arms and broke his hold. “I do this. I just want a little relief from loneliness, and I end up engaged to a total jerk and not coming to my senses until I’m addressing the wedding invitations.”

  Mason stared at her, the heat in his body far from assuaged.

  “You seem like a nice guy,” Jasmine went on, resting her fingers on his chest—which just showed she knew crap all about Shifters. None of them were nice. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Now Mason wanted to laugh. He leaned to her, trapping her hand with his.

  “Listen, sweetheart,” he said in a hard voice, “if I’m kissing you, it’s because I want to kiss you. Not because you’re upset or alone, but because you’re pretty in the twilight and I want to taste you. Has nothing to do with anything else, and you can’t hurt me.”

  “I haven’t hurt you yet,” Jasmine said. “But I will when I tell you the wedding’s off, or bury you under the floor in my house—or you’ll break it off because you find a woman you want to be with who isn’t a crazy psychic in a creepy old house.”

  Mason listened in bafflement then stopped her flow of words by touching her mouth. “I don’t care about any of that. I came to have you help me find a Shifter healer, and now I’m going to fix your guitar. If we kiss along the way, then we do. All right?” He lifted himself from her, his heart pounding, the mating frenzy that lurked inside every Shifter flickering on the edges of his sanity. The guitar, he told himself. Focus on the guitar.

  He blew out a breath and made himself turn away from Jasmine. “Now, let me look at this thing.”

  * * *

  Jazz watched numbly as Mason laid out the broken pieces of the Martin, his blunt fingers gentle as he touched the wood.

  His hands had been as gentle on Jazz’s body. She still felt the imprint of them on her back.

  Still felt the heat of his kiss too. Her knees had started to fold as she’d sagged against his chest. He was warmer than a human man, the fabric of his shirt and jacket holding all kinds of heat.

  Mason shrugged the jacket off now, no longer worried about being exposed as a Shifter. Porch light slid down arms bared by his shirt and glinted on the silver and black Collar around his throat.

  He bent over the guitar, fingers moving almost tenderly as he removed the strings and set them aside. “The neck’s intact. That’s good. Didn’t get bent. I can save a lot of this, but I’ll have to cut a few new pieces. It will look the same but I can’t guarantee it will sound the same. It will still sound good,” he added quickly as though thinking Jazz worried about that, “but its voice will be different.” He said this regretfully, gazing at the guitar as he might a friend who was ill and broken.

  “If you can fix it, that would be awesome,” Jazz said. “Tell you what—you fix my guitar, I’ll find your healer, and we’ll call it even.”

  Mason’s skeptical look returned. He’d dealt with her house without fear, not questioning that it had trapped and terrified Lucas on purpose, but he obviously didn’t believe in Jazz’s abilities at all.

  Jazz went on when he didn’t answer. “I’ll prove it to you. I’ll tell you everything there is to know about Mason McNaughton. If I’m wrong about any of it, I’ll pay you whatever is fair for fixing the guitar and say good-bye, no hard feelings.” She offered her hand. “Deal?”

  Chapter Five

  Mason stared at the hand Jazz stuck out as though not quite sure what to do with it. He looked into her eyes, his gray ones quiet, set down the last string, and closed his fingers over hers.

  “Deal.”

  Jazz stopped herself from making any kind of noise as his aura engulfed her, the wildness of him coming through. It was as though she sought to befriend an untamed animal, pretending she wasn’t afraid as she touched him. Mason held her with his gaze, stilling her.

  She drew a quick breath and jerked her hand from his grasp.

  “All right.” Jazz waved him to sit while she rummaged in her shelves.

  Mason turned back to the guitar as though not at all interested in what Jazz was doing, but she saw his eyes gleam in the rising moonlight as he watched her.

  She set votive candles in holders on the veranda’s railing and a few on the table, well away from the pieces of guitar, and lit them. Next she studied her tarot decks and picked the three she thought would work best.

  Stones came next. Jazz liked working with stones and crystals, finding a connection with them. Not all psychics did—some preferred incense, wind chimes, or candles to assist them, but the stones enhanced Jazz’s abilities. Plus, the colors and shapes were pleasing.

  Mason flicked his gaze to them as she laid them out—obsidian, tiger’s eye, amber, and a smoky quartz the color of his eyes. The candles flickered in a breath of breeze, then burned straight and tall.

  “I didn’t finish reading your hand,” Jazz said. “But I’ll do that later. I was right about the creative bend to the head line. It’s very strong.”

  “Mmm,” Mason said. He finally laid the pieces of guitar aside and turned to focus on what she was doing.

  When he focused, he really did it. No halves. Mason’s wolf stare fixed on her, the predator in him never far away. Jazz’s blood tingled hot and she forced her attention to her task.

  “I’m going to do several tarot readings on you,” she said quickly. “A traditional one, and then I have readings that I’ve come up with myself. I find that several different types of readings are better to clear out any psychic blocks you might have put up, intentionally or unintentionally.”

  Mason only watched her—a wolf waiting for the rabbit to realize she was his next target.

  Jazz thrust the first deck of cards at him, trying to stem her nervousness. “Here, shuffle those. When you’re done, shuffle these as well.” As Mason took the first deck, Jazz laid the other two in front of him.

  Mason moved the cards between his fingers, pulling the pack apart and shoving it together again. The moonlight filtered through the leaves of the rose vines, making his eyes silver in the shadows.

  He finished with the cards, slapped the pack down in front of her, and picked up the next one. While he shuffled, again with slow deliberation, Jazz smoothed out the silk cloth she’d laid on the table and adjusted the candles and crystals around it.

  Mason finished with the second pack and picked up the third. Jazz waited until he had shuffled that one and set it back down with the same
impatient thump.

  “We’ll start with the reason you came to see me.” Jazz willed her fingers to still as she drew a card from the top of the first deck and turned it over. “Knight of Wands. Hmm, not too surprising.”

  Mason leaned forward, his brows drawing together. “Why? What’s it mean?”

  Jazz touched the card, which depicted a knight on horseback, who seemingly didn’t notice he was holding a wand at his side. “The first card is all about you and why you’re here—you came to me so I can help you find someone. The Knight of Wands can mean a journey—you’re seeking something, but you currently don’t have a specific direction to travel. It’s also about you personally. You were restless and needed to leave home, seeking to do something about the situation—you don’t trust anyone else to do it. You’re brave but a little reckless.” Jazz let herself smile. “As proved when you picked up Lucas like a sack of potatoes and carried him out of here. I’ll have to thank you for that. I was trying to find a graceful way to break up that didn’t involve a terrible fight.”

  Mason gave her a nod. “No problem.”

  Jazz caught a glimmer of humor in his voice, and she wondered what he’d said to Lucas before Lucas had driven off in a big hurry.

  Jazz pulled her concentration back to the cards. “Let’s find out how this quest will go …” She turned over another card and laid it crosswise on top of the knight. “Oh,” she said in some dismay.

  “Oh?” Mason jerked his attention to her. “What oh?”

  “This card is the Tower.” Jazz indicated the picture of the tower that tumbled down, spilling bricks as it went. She continued quickly, trying to make her voice bright. “Which, can be, you know, a positive card if you put the right interpretation on it.”

  “I have no idea what it means,” Mason growled. “You’re saying I’m a knight, but I have to charge a tower that’s already falling apart? This is total bullshit.”

  Jazz stopped her next words. She’d been speaking to him as she would a client at the store, people who wanted advice but didn’t necessarily want bad news. The Tower could be taken to mean something like a breakthrough, but most often in her experience, it meant a negative force.

  “It means your journey is going to be difficult,” she confessed. “That you might not find what you seek.”

  “It’s already difficult,” Mason said in a hard voice. “Staying home was more difficult. I don’t really care what I have to do to fix this.”

  He didn’t. Jazz read anger in him, frustration, even some helplessness. This wasn’t a man who liked these feelings, and he struggled with them. His aura told her that.

  “Let’s keep on,” Jazz said, trying to sound soothing. She laid down the next card above the first two. “Ah, not bad. The Eight of Wands. This tells you to move forward, while you can—don’t wait. The Tower indicates the way will be difficult, but the Eight of Wands shows that it’s a great time for your quest.”

  “Does it?” The words were flat, not really a question. “What else?”

  “Let’s look at your past foundation,” Jazz said as she turned over the next card. “Page of Wands—hmm, you’re getting a lot of wands, another indication you need to continue your quest immediately. The page tells me that you’ve had a lot of support in the past, loyalty from those around you.”

  Mason huffed a breath. “Seriously? You’ve never been in a Shifter family have you? Try being the youngest of a bunch of pain-in-the-ass wolves. Alphas who like to remind you constantly that you’re the bottom of the pack. Even the crazy feral thinks he out-dominates me. Or he would if he wasn’t a crazy feral. My brothers are loyal only when they want something.”

  He spoke with conviction but Jazz read something in Mason’s tone that contradicted his words. He wasn’t lying—he meant everything he said—but there was more to his situation than he was letting on. Maybe he really did believe everyone treated him like he was the least important member of his family, but Jazz had difficulty imagining anyone dismissing him. Mason so dominated every inch of space around him that Jazz couldn’t believe he didn’t put everyone else in their place.

  “Anyway,” she said, and quickly laid the next card beneath the crossed cards. “Ah. The Magician. Thought so. It’s very like you.”

  Mason studied the card. “I’m like a magician when I don’t believe in magic?”

  “You do believe in magic,” Jazz countered. “You just don’t believe in me.” She gave him a smile, but his lack of trust stung a little. “The Magician card tells me you’re someone who believes in taking action. You’re also creative and resourceful, and will do whatever you can to finish what you need to. All of this …” She waved her hand to indicate the turned-over cards … “Influenced your decision to go on a quest no one else wanted to undertake.”

  “They didn’t try very hard to stop me,” Mason said, frowning. “I think they were just happy I shut up and left.”

  If that was true, then Jazz didn’t think much of these Shifters that had sent him off. Mason at least had gotten off his ass and tried to help.

  Jazz turned over the next card. “Strength,” she said, pointing to it. “Again, not surprised. Your aura has a lot of strength. This is what’s going to get you through this quest, is what’s going to help you against the many obstacles the Tower says are coming.” She touched the crossed cards. “All in all, this is a good reading so far. It’s telling me that even though the way is going to be tough, everything about you will help you win in the end.”

  She sat back, pleased, ready to deal the final four cards and complete the reading.

  Mason’s strong hand on her wrist stopped her. “Enough of this. Can you help me find the guy or not?”

  Jazz’s heart beat faster, both in anger and at the hot streak of longing at his touch. “I might be able to if you let me finish,” she said hastily. “It could tell us where to start looking.”

  Mason’s grip didn’t loosen. “They’re cards. Pieces of cardboard someone printed at a factory. They don’t mean anything.” He let go of Jazz and swept his hand over the cloth, scattering cards every which way. “If you can’t help me, I’ll fix your guitar and then be on my way.”

  Jazz lost her temper. She’d been derided by people before who didn’t believe in psychics and scoffed throughout readings. But Mason pissed her off. Just because he was hot, and yeah, she’d enjoyed the hell out of that kiss, didn’t mean she was going to sit here and let him insult her. She was the best damn psychic in New Orleans. She had the true gift, and everyone who was anyone knew it.

  “All right,” she snapped. Jazz shoved the decks aside then reached out and cupped his face in her hands. “I’ll tell you what I know. You’re arrogant and full of yourself, though I don’t have to be a psychic to know that. You’re the youngest of your family, which means your brothers have always expected you to be naive and do a lot of the grunt work. Because of that, you’ve retreated into your craft to make yourself feel better and have some sense of control. You’ve perfected your craft so much that now your brothers envy you the skill but they don’t often tell you so. You lost your mom not long ago, and it hurt you bad, but you haven’t been able to talk about it to anyone. She died of grief because your father was killed tragically a while back … Oh.” Jazz trailed off and swallowed, her anger dying into shock. “He was shot. Oh, Mason, I’m so sorry.”

  Mason jerked from her. “None of this is a big secret. Bree could have told you all that.”

  Jazz shook her head, her heart squeezing in compassion. “She didn’t. She told me your name and that you were a Shifter from Austin trying to find someone. I’m so, so sorry about your mom and dad.”

  She’d pieced together the entire story from his aura and the chilling anguish that nearly leapt out at her. But it didn’t matter. He’d been through grief. Perhaps his brothers didn’t even understand how much he’d been hurting.

  Mason, she’d seen, had witnessed the death. He’d been about nine, still a very young cub. That moment h
ad changed him from a happy kid who was a little bit complacent to a stunned and lonely child, raw and hurting. He still smarted from it, Jazz could see. Jazz knew from her own experience that some people didn’t think the very young had enough comprehension to feel profound grief and loss, bewilderment and emptiness, but they did.

  Mason only looked at her. There was rage in him, though not necessarily for her.

  Jazz put her hand on his, squeezing a little. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice soft.

  Mason jerked, but he didn’t pull away. His anger flared then it died, bit by bit, until it was a smoldering glow. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

  That thank you was hard for him. Mason wasn’t used to compassion, she was coming to understand. Jazz had seen, when his past and present had rushed by her, that his brothers and aunt had gotten through their pain by not speaking of it. They’d stayed together, their closeness apparent, but his brothers weren’t the kind of men who talked about their feelings.

  They sat in silence for a time, while the moon rose higher, and a light breeze moved the rose vines. The air cooled the residual heat of the May day, a welcome relief.

  They stayed there until Mason gently withdrew his hand and sat back. “The Shifter I’m looking for apparently doesn’t like being found,” he said, as though the secrets of his pain hadn’t been revealed. “From what I understand, healers like to hide. I don’t know if it’s because they have to or because they’re wussy.”

  Jazz tried a smile. “So we scour two countries for a wussy Shifter?”

  Mason grunted what might have been a laugh. “For a Goddess-touched wussy Shifter.”

  “Goddess-touched?” Jazz lifted her brows. “Hmm. We might be able to use that. You’re a little Goddess-touched yourself.” Jazz reached out and brushed one finger across his cheek. “I saw it when I read you.”

  Mason stilled. His anger died all the way into cool ashes, but another kind of heat filled his gaze.