Between Death (#6.5): Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance

by Blodgett, Tamara Rose

  “Just making sure my investment pays off,” he says smoothly. I am feeling the distraction of him as I see his large strong hands hold the throttle and subtly twist it as the motor give an deep appreciative throb.

  “What?” I can't believe him. I put my hands on my hips and his gaze travels in a random three point pattern. Yeah, that one. I scowl at him, my breasts and hoo-ha tingling from where his gaze just traveled.

  “Looking for bruises?”

  His smile fades.

  “No,” he says in curt answer. “Did you look at the card I gave you?”

  I shake my head. I went straight from the hospital to my place, took a hot and painful shower, and headed directly to my mom's care facility.

  “You might want to.” The kickstand taps the concrete, and then he's moving toward me in a steady stride of fluid muscle in motion.

  God, he's big. My heart is in my throat as his shoulders blot out the street behind us, the sun... everything. I look up as he draws nearer. His subtle smell is a memory trigger for the asphalt at my cheek, the swirling haze in my mind, the feel of a warm hand over mine.

  Safe, my memory whispers.

  I blink, and he's there, tipping my chin up and searching my face. Heat blazes in his eyes though his expression is cool. His gaze moves to my mouth, and I feel my lips part in invitation. An invitation I've expressly forbidden myself. My life is in shambles, and he's a last-minute storm driven into my path.

  McKenna bends his frame over mine. He cups my chin as his mouth hovers over the corner of mine. “Do what it says, Miss Mitchell.”

  He drops his hand from my face and I stand there, stunned. He walks away, drops one long leather-clad leg over the seat and lifts the kickstand with a practiced swivel of his black boot. He turns to me. “Call me Mick. I think we're on a first name basis now, don't you?” he asks rhetorically.

  He doesn't wait for an answer I won't give. Jared pulls away from the curb, and I walk forward like a zombie. I sway as I watch him, and something startling occurs to me.

  The past day has been the first twenty-four headache-less hours I've had in months.

  Maybe Jared “Mick” McKenna is my medicine?

  Or my drug of choice. Either way, I'm an addict.

  ~ 8 ~

  I walk through the narrow front door of my apartment building. My eyes travel the stairs, and I sigh with irritation. My gaze shifts to the rickety old freight elevator, a soothing form of transport—if it works.

  I'll take my chances. I press the old push button that slides the elevator doors apart. I shove the metal gate away, step through, close the woven metal behind me, and latch it with my right hand. I press the lit number 5. With a lurch, the cart lumbers up, grinding and clattering the entire way. It stops just short of the fifth floor. I open the heavy metal, and it slides away with a rattle. Gripping one side, I hike myself up to floor level and grimace. My body doesn't like being tossed on a street, I guess.

  I close the door and walk the short distance to my apartment. I slide the key into the bolt and turn it, opening the door with my hip, and drop my keys in the bowl on top of a small table from my mom's house.

  I spread my fingers, feeling their stiffness.

  I put on the kettle and watch the burner turn red as I grab the edges of the stove. I lean against it, chin brushing my chest, and cry.

  I don't want to die. I want to see Jared McKenna again. I want to know the secrets of my body before I no longer exist to experience them. I lift my head and walk to the sink, turning on the tap, wallowing in the comfort of my familiar routine. The water steams as it hits the white porcelain basin and I splash hot water on my face and it feels good – normal. Breathing deeply, I try to bring myself back to whatever center I can find.

  I stare off instead, thinking about nothing. The card. I remember and lurch to the couch. My normal grace is gone in my rush to retrieve the card he slid inside my purse. My body squawks, aches and pains springing up like unwanted weeds. I reach in my pink purse, the fake diamonds winking at me.

  The card will say something like: I know your secret.

  Though he can't know.

  Or: You work for me, pay up—on my lap.

  That elicits a shiver. Not one of revulsion either. I'm pretty sure Jared hasn't put it together that I was the girl picking up money at his feet.

  Or my personal favorite: You're fired.

  He won't give a shit that my mom is two weeks from being put into one of those places.

  I shudder thinking about the care Tannin Mitchell would receive in a state facility.

  I push it out of my mind as my hand closes around the heavy paper. The square fits into my palm perfectly, luxuriously. Nothing but the best for Jared.

  I move my hand away from the front. In black foil lettering, it reads: Jared McKenna. Tiny upper case letters spell out a web site address.

  Well, that was lame. I suppose he wants me to become a follower? My thumb glides across the deeply embossed letters, shining like ink on the deep cream card. With a sigh, I place it on the end table and turn to move back into the kitchen.

  My eyes hit on the slanted script on the back. I read it twice.

  Streetside; 1920 1st Ave. Seven o'clock. Black tie.

  I stare at the deliberate handwriting, and a nervous laugh shoots out of my mouth. What is this?

  Then it comes to me. Jared McKenna, a.k.a. Mick, feels guilty. He wants to make sure that he ties the bow just right on the package of his conscience. Once that's done, he can move on and be free of me.

  I feel a smile bleed across my face, and I don't need a mirror to know it's not pleasant.

  I have nothing to lose. Kiki is doing my laps tomorrow night too. I have a full twenty-four hours without worry.

  You're dying, Faren, my mind reminds me in an evil whisper. I decide to seize the moment.

  Nothing to lose.

  Except my virginity.

  *

  I walk outside my apartment building, and the cool air nips at my exposed legs. The nude stockings are so sheer they let the wind have its way with me. My platform pumps match my hose, and the chill works upward underneath my silver dress. It's short and elegant, unlike the costumes I wear for the laps of strangers. The clothes hide both the bruise from Mick's Harley and the fading cylinder from riding erections. Gaining experience while losing my innocence, one lap at a time.

  I force my thoughts back to the outfit I've chosen for McKenna, the salve to his guilt. The silver of my dress makes my eyes look like shiny coins. I've tacked my hair up in an elegant loose coil at my nape, abandoning informal bands, barrettes and hair jewelry in favor of honey-colored bobby pins I use to artfully arrange my hair into a knot at the base of my head.

  But my mind revolves around Doctor Matthews's words and the card he gave me with my appointment about management. I find myself dismissing his cautions as a limousine pulls up at the curb. I clutch my small silver purse and bite my lip not to laugh.

  This can't be happening to me. I'm a physical therapist and part time exotic lap dancer. Girls like me don't go out with billionaires. Especially terminally ill girls, even if it's only to dispel his feelings of responsibility.

  Of course, nobody would know I'm living on borrowed time from looking at me. The girl in the mirror stared steadily back as I had glammed up for tonight, healthy as a horse.

  But that's not what the damning photo of my brain has proven to me.

  Was that just a day ago? I wonder. A day ago when I was breezing through patients, grinding through lap dances. Before my life dumps upside down forever. But I've made a promise to Mom. A promise I can't give up because my circumstances have turned dire, permanent.

  I will keep it. She gave her life for mine. I’ll do anything it takes to give her dignity. Because that's all I can do.

  The driver comes around to the curb and discreetly glances at my outfit. A slim smile courses across lips accustomed to just that expression. He probably smiles like that when he's sleeping.
/>   “Ms. Mitchell?” he inquires in smooth American English. He's a stooped, older gentleman, maybe close to mid-seventies.

  I think of him driving with old man reflexes in the heart of Seattle. I hesitate. Actually, the whole situation makes me hesitate, and I have a crazy urge to run off in the opposite direction.

  I don't.

  “Please.” He sweeps an arm forward and guides me by my elbow to the back of the limo.

  I'm so glad for my ten years of ballet before height stole my dreams. I glide down off the curb into the street and fold into the limo easily.

  It's empty. I turn to the limo driver. “Where is...” I don't know how to refer to him.

  The little old man inserts my missing moniker smoothly, “Mr. McKenna?”

  I nod.

  “He awaits you at our destination,” he replies and softly shuts the door.

  I survey him as he leisurely strolls around the front of the limo and opens the door to slide in.

  I realize I don't know his name.

  I lean forward and tap the glass partition, my rear in the air and my knee planted on the seat across from me.

  The glass opens, and his watery blue eyes meet mine. “Yes, Ms. Mitchell?”

  “What is your name?”

  A genuine smile spreads the deep folds of his cheeks to smoothness.

  “I am Henry.”

  He extends a palm through the open glass, and I take it. He gives my hand a brief squeeze before he lets go to turn back to the wheel.

  I settle again in my seat and smooth my dress down to mid-thigh. “Thank you, Henry.”

  His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “You are most welcome.”

  The glass closes with a silent hiss, and our eyes meet for a moment more. I think I see something in them that gives me pause.

  A sort of wise sadness remains as his eyes shift to the road. We’re on the same page but put in the book for different reasons.

  Henry pulls away from the curb. I watch him expertly navigate the busy lower streets of First Street. He avoids the storefront of Pike Place Market, still jammed with tourists. It's been dark for an hour as we close in on the restaurant. My face breaks into a grin. Thoughts of bucket lists crowd my head, and I remember I can take whatever is I wish for. My life is mine in a way I've never thought of before. There is no precedence for this night.

  For what might come next.

  We park at the base of the Space Needle, where Mick waits five hundred feet above the ground. Henry slips out of the limousine and walks to my door. I bend my legs in unison, tap my heels on the street, and take the hand he offers me.

  Henry lifts his chin infinitesimally, and I look where he indicates. People are walking toward the doors of the Skycity Restaurant and their dress code is not formal as Mick has told me. He requested I dress black tie formal, even though it's not required, and I frown as the mystery of Mick deepens.

  I move through the lobby, decked out in vintage 1960s space age décor, and look around with wide eyes. I've lived in Seattle nearly all my life, and I’ve never been here. I walk to the elevator, and a man in a suit presses a button and the elevator doors whisk open. A few people in various states of formal attire move inside and he closes the door with a press of a white-gloved hand.

  I ride the glass elevator up. The view is spectacular. City lights greet me in a twinkling crescendo of chaotic pinpoints of color. Puget Sound glitters back at me, the moon riding high and bright against the small whitecaps, as the press of winter lies ready to take hold with icy fingers. I fold my light shawl around my shoulders, feeling the fringe feather and tickle my bare skin. I'm wearing another borrowed outfit from Kiki. She's told me she's too hot to wear something this cool. I smile, remembering her comment when I tried it on in front of her.

  “I'm too hot for this sweet dress,” she'd said when I tried on the dress. She spun around me as she plucked and adjusted. Her eyes met mine in the full-length mirror. “But you, you're so cool in it you'll melt whoever sees you.”

  She stood and clapped when I spun, relishing who I have a date with. Unbelievable as it is.

  I don't know if I’m cool in this dress, but it makes me feel sexy. Free. A precious commodity at the moment.

  My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.

  The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”

  I nod. How does he know who I am?

  “Please, follow me.”

  We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.

  Mick.

  He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.

  With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.

  The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.

  “Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.

  I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.

  The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.

  I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.

  But never one I care about.

  One who matters.

  ~ 9 ~

  I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.

  He'd have to be looking for it to notice.

  Mick does.

  He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.

  “Don't, Miss Mitchell.”

  “You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”

  A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”

  I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.

  “Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.

  His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.

  Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.

  Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.

  He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.

  Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.

  He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”

  My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.

  I want someone to feel guilty.

  He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”

  I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking h
e'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”

  “I want to,” he says simply.

  Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given me a bravado that doesn't feel false. I take in everything without shame. Though we're formal, he hasn’t shaved. His hair is short on the sides and longish on the top. A natural wave sweeps it off a low forehead. The flame of his hair burns a deep bronze above eyes that are almost too large for a man's face.

  No female alive would mistake Jared McKenna for anything but male. His broad shoulders anchor our table, his biceps stretching the dark navy suit. His crisp white shirt is a blazing star beneath his dusky complexion. I think of how calloused those strong hands are.

  “You're blushing,” he comments softly, and I nod. Mick studies me and I don't look away. Still brave. Finally he lets his hands drop to the table draped in fine linen. “You don't seem embarrassed.”

  I shake my head. I’m not blushing from shame; it's the effect he has on me. I've never felt arousal, and now it's here to stay because of Mick.

  It's in the beating of my heart, the ache between my legs. My nipples are sharp pebbles beneath the lightweight material of my shimmery dress.

  It's all... and nothing.

  “Then what are you, Miss Mitchell?” Mick asks in soft inquiry.

  “I'm not a game to be conquered,” I say. Though I’m not being honest.

  Jared makes a purr of contentment deep in his throat and leans back. The waiter comes in and asks what I'd like to drink.

  “Whatever he’s having,” I reply. I know that McKenna has some agenda and is accustomed to seeing his pushed through.

  He orders a bottle of wine I've never heard of and smiles at me, the dimple in his chin flattening.

  But he knows nothing. What Mick senses as contrary simply is what it is. I'm not playing hard to get, I'm simply calling out the shots of whatever this is. I don't have time to play metaphorical chess with him. I have patients to help and dances to grind through to get my mom in a place where I won't have to worry.