Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  I shouldn’t find it so captivating, even endearing, seeing him like this: out of his element yet so determined to get it right. “Yep. Memorize the front of the card once you do, and be sure not to show it to me.”

  He slowly leans forward, his thigh brushing across my knee as he picks a card. I swallow hard, breaking my gaze away and returning it to the cards remaining in my hands, while he lowers his own to his lap.

  “That’s good,” I mumble, splitting them down the middle. With half the deck in one hand and half in the other, I rest my wrists on each crisscrossed thigh. “So, once you have it memorized, slide the card on top of either of these stacks.”

  His eyes drop to my thighs, leisurely traveling from one to the other, then back again, practically burning holes straight through my pants in the process. He shifts forward once more, slowly, carefully, sliding it onto the stack in my left hand. A vague vibration from the subtle movement strokes the palm of my hand. Without letting go, he returns his gaze to mine, and my breath catches in my throat. I’ve never seen so much green. It’s like the emerald blaze has backed the black-ice into a corner, and all of the mesmerizing flames are now centered on me.

  “Just like this?”

  It’s just a question. An ordinary, logical question. But there’s a husky roughness in his tone and a look in those eyes that dares me to . . . to what, exactly?

  I nod, my neck suddenly stiff, and my answer comes out as a whisper. “Just like that.”

  When he finally removes his hand and leans back against the seat, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I force my brain to continue functioning, placing the right stack of cards on top of the left. After dividing the deck into four piles, one pile at a time, I spread them out in my fingers to reveal them. “Do you see your card in this stack?” I ask softly.

  He only looks down for a second before flicking his eyes back to mine. “No.”

  “How about this one?”

  “Yes.”

  I collect the other piles and realize I have no idea where to set them aside. The loveseat is already small and, with the way we’re both positioned, there’s not enough room on the cushions. “Mind holding these for the rest of the—” I almost blurt out magic trick but catch myself just in time, “um, ritual?”

  Bringing my attention back to the last remaining pile before me, I mindlessly extend the extras toward him, setting them down on his warm lap. My grip hasn’t quite released them yet when I hear him clear his throat, feel the friction of fabric moving beneath my fingers as his body shifts. I finally look in the direction of my hand and am instantly mortified.

  My hand. Is on. His penis.

  I mean, not really, but it’s pretty damn close. Between the other night and tonight, it’s like I’m hosting my own private show called How Many Times Can Lou Touch Him Inappropriately. Speaking of which, I should probably move right about now. I yank my fingers away so fast the cards almost spill from his lap to the ground, but he catches them with a quick move of his hand.

  “Oh my god,” I groan, reluctantly meeting his gaze. “I’m sorry. I swear that wasn’t, like, me making a move or something.” Does he even know what that means?

  Apparently so. He presses his lips together in a tight line, jaw ticking. His eyes still burn a fierce green, but they don’t give anything away. “Don’t worry about it,” he all but grinds out. “What’s next?”

  “Right.” I glance back down at the remaining cards, ridiculously thankful he didn’t drag that out like he definitely could have. I divide them again, then do all the separating and discarding Grams walked me through, and when I get to that last card, I pause. Regaining my formal tone, I say, “Now, everything hangs on this next part. If I get this wrong, my status in our, um, human rankings will be lowered.”

  His eyes narrow, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it too far. Maybe I’m being too obvious. But then his expression softens. “Go ahead.”

  Phew. I flip the card so it’s face up, then lower my voice just enough to sound serious. “Was this your card?”

  I watch as his face goes from hard, masked, to focused, then . . . surprised? Relieved? “Yes,” he says with a satisfied nod. “That’s the one.” He brings his gaze back up to meet mine, a lightness dancing in his eyes that I’ve never seen before.

  That’s when I see it. It starts slow, the corner of his lips lifting. Then the other corner lifts to match it, and butterflies swirl in my stomach as I realize he’s actually smiling at me. A definite, even sincere, smile. It’s not what I’d expect; understated and almost shy, with a single dimple on his right cheek that manages to change his entire look. In a split second, he somehow went from intimidating and deadly to boyish and endearing.

  “You did it,” he murmurs, green gaze roaming my face.

  I find myself grinning back, soaking up his smile like the first glimpse of sunlight after a long, rough winter.

  Oh, boy. I’m in trouble.

  Chapter 23

  We sit like that for several beats, eyes locked together, bodies almost close enough to touch with the way we’ve both seemed to lean toward each other. His smile’s already begun to drop, but the dimple hasn’t fully disappeared yet and there’s still a lightness in those eyes when they fall to my lips, tracing every curve.

  I clear my throat and close my eyes, abruptly breaking the trance before it sucks me in further. “Okay,” I whisper seriously, “now for the closing line.” I can’t justify my reasons for coming up with this next part, except that I want to test my theory that he can make anything teeter between sounding threatening and sensual. Without opening my eyes, I say, “Repeat after me: Leggo. My Eggo.”

  After a moment of silence passes, I keep one eye closed and squint through the other, trying to sneak a peek at him. Except he’s looking right at me. And he does not look amused. Somehow, even though he can’t possibly know the waffle reference, I think he’s caught on—no thanks, I’m sure, to the way my face has twisted into a partial grimace, partial grin, as I try to hold back the laughter bubbling up my throat.

  “Please?” I squeak out. It’s childish, I know, but I really want to hear this.

  After another brief second of taking in my expression, he speaks. And it’s almost like he knows exactly what he’s doing when he does. “Leggo,” he says it slowly, exaggerating each syllable, ensuring I feel the full effect of that low husk of his voice, “my Eggo.”

  My mouth opens to form an ‘O’ as I stare at him in shock—over the fact that he actually said it despite knowing it was bullshit and over confirmation that my theory is indeed correct. He totally pulled it off. I only hold the expression for a moment before finally letting out the bubble of laughter that’s been itching to escape. It takes a second for my giggles to quiet, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye as they do. “I’m sorry,” I murmur between one last snicker. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise. Well, not totally.”

  He lowers an eyebrow and tilts his head, apparently mulling something over. “Exactly how much of the ritual was real?”

  “Um . . .”

  He lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair, and I start to worry that I’ve pissed him off. “None of it?”

  I slowly shake my head in answer, then press my lips together, trying to bite back another laugh. So not appropriate, Lou.

  His eyes narrow, lips tightening for a reason different from mine.

  “It’s called a joke,” I explain gently, catching my bottom lip between my teeth before another smile escapes. “A sense of humor. Or in my case, a sad attempt to forget reality for a minute.”

  For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. And I wonder if this is what happens right before he decides to kill you, take your soul. Maybe he just freezes, time stands still, and then wham bam, thank you ma’am, he’s got you.

  Instead, he takes me by surprise again when he leans back against the seat and stretches out his legs. “A joke,” he murmurs thoughtfully, running a thumb across his ja
w. He shifts his head toward me, eyes blazing. “Okay, then. Tell me something real.”

  “Something real?”

  He gives a nod, like it’s the simplest request.

  “How about . . .” I’m not sure if this’ll work, but it’s worth a shot. “I’ll make you a deal.” For some reason, the saying never make a deal with the Devil flashes through my mind. But he’s not the Devil. Right? “I’ll tell you several. But for everything I tell you, you tell me one back, about yourself.”

  He studies me in silence, tilting his head again in a way I’m getting familiar with. “Deal.”

  I grin, then extend my hand. His gaze flicks down, then he furrows his brow. Does he not know what a handshake is?

  “You’re supposed to take my hand and shake it,” I explain, my own brow mirroring his. “Like this.” I watch as the hand resting on his lap tenses in a moment of apprehension, fingers clenching to form a fist briefly before releasing. I ease my hand into his, swallowing as the bold heat of his skin connects with mine, and give it a light squeeze. Then he tightens his hold until he has a firm grip on me. “This,” I whisper, still eying our touching hands, “is a handshake.”

  When I return my gaze to his, he’s not looking at the contact at all. He’s honed in on me, carefully scanning my face. Somehow, his expression has softened, like his guard is dropping little by little, and the gentle look does something to my stomach, my chest. It’s like a soft squeeze, tugging me toward him. Making me want to inch closer. Instead, I withdraw my hand, wiping my palm on my pants.

  “So, I’ll start?” I glance away, trying to collect my thoughts and figure out where to begin. A part of me wants to stick with small, insignificant facts. Like my favorite color or a good band. But a larger part, the part of me that’s suffocating from keeping everything bottled up inside, is screaming for me to break down my box and let it all out. Flood the room with confessions, emotions, and whatever mindless thoughts might manifest.

  Eventually what comes out is, “I hate Sundays. It’s the one day of the week I can’t seem to stop myself from breaking down.”

  He’s quiet for a second. “The night you were crying . . .”

  I nod, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over me at revealing the simple, partial truth. He doesn’t press me for more, and I’m relieved. This, I can do. “Your turn.”

  I hear the sharp inhale, see the rise and fall of his chest. The muscles in my stomach contract in anticipation as I realize he’s really going to hold up his end of the deal. “You felt it once.”

  I blink. “Excuse me?”

  “My world,” he says slowly. “You felt it once, that night when I crossed back over. You reached out after me, and your hand got caught in my trail.”

  I let out a breath. “I knew it. I mean, I wondered if that’s what that was.” My gaze darts to my hands as I stretch out my very real, very solid fingers. “So that numbness, the weird, cold sensation that took over, that’s what it’s like for you? When you’re there?”

  He looks away for a second, his lips tightening into a fine line before relaxing again. “It’s a small taste.” Just a taste of what he experiences? Every second he’s not here? I shudder at the thought. “You’re next.”

  “Right,” I mumble. “Um.” I don’t know why, but in this moment, I feel the need to be honest with him. To confess. I chew the corner of my lip, then, “I was awake.” His gaze narrows, questioning. “When I was sick. Well, not at first, I wasn’t. I felt your warmth, I wanted to get . . . closer. But when I felt you shift under me, I didn’t want to let go. Then I was embarrassed, so I pretended I was still asleep.”

  I finally meet his eyes head on, to find them dead set on me. If I were the blushing type, I’m certain my skin would turn scarlet from that look alone. Burning, intense, filled to the brim with hidden meaning, and I wish, God do I wish, that I could see the thoughts igniting that flame. Another beat passes with no response, causing a silence-induced awkwardness to build. “Please say something,” I breathe, surprised by how vulnerable the admission has made me feel.

  Tearing his eyes from mine, he scrubs a hand down his face. “My turn.” His voice is low when he murmurs, “I’m not built to . . . feel things.”

  I arch a brow. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I witness emotions every day when I collect.” I swallow at that word, collect, knowing he’s referring to the moment he takes one’s soul. “Everything from fear, to pain, grief, or relief. But I’ve never felt a single emotion myself. Not once.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, then those green eyes lock on mine, holding my gaze steady. “Never, until entering this world. Never, until you.”

  My eyes widen, my heart thumping in my chest. This is the first real thing he’s told me about himself. Not of his world, but himself. Such a personal part of him, why he is the way he is. To go through life never having felt anything before, I can’t even imagine. Thinking back now, it makes so much sense. How closed off he gets. The way he shuts down just when he starts opening up, starts allowing himself to feel anything.

  God, what must this be like for him? Taking in all these emotions, all the new sensations suddenly running through him. I lean forward slightly, squinting as though it’ll help me see into his mind, his heart.

  “That first night you wound up here, when I walked in with—with a friend. You seemed so angry. Livid.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s a dry smile, his jaw clenching. “I was. I apologize for that. It was my first real experience with these emotions. I was . . . frustrated. I’m still trying to get used to this. To adjust.”

  My heart pulsates, his words sinking in.

  I want so badly to press him for more. More answers, more anything. But his expression is already hardening again, and I don’t want his guard to go back up. Not when I’ve just gotten it down. So I force myself to lean back against the seat, force my expression, my voice, to relax. And this time when I take my turn, I decide to let my guard down in the same way he’s done for me.

  “My turn,” I whisper, locking my eyes with his. “Lately, I get these dreams. These boys, brothers—it’s like I can feel everything they’re feeling. And it’s horrible. The way they’re treated, it’s disgusting.” My throat constricts, and I swallow down the lump building there. “But they’re so strong. So much stronger than me. And despite everything, their hearts are so full. Full of love for each other, and hope.” Wetness pools at the corners of my eyes. I blink it away. “I know they’re not real. I know it’s just a dream. But in many ways, I look up to them. They’re my role models.”

  After a quiet second, I shake my head, pushing the thought away and lightening my voice. “And . . . go,” I nudge, trying to smile.

  I watch as his hand slowly comes up, his chest rising and falling, then his thumb is just barely brushing over my lips. I can’t tell if he’s even touching me, or if the soft stroke I feel is purely from the heat of his skin moving against mine. Somehow we’ve leaned forward again, not a clue who’s inching toward whom, but our lips are so close, our breaths tangle together. My exhales becoming his inhales. He traces the curve of my forced half-smile, like he’s telling me he sees the truth. That I don’t have to pretend. It’s a small gesture, but it pierces straight through my chest.

  Without warning, his heat starts to dissipate, and his form begins to blur. No, not now. Stay, I want to beg, even though I know he can’t always control it. He keeps his thumb at my lips, the solid outline of his body fading all too quickly before my eyes, as he whispers, “Sometimes . . . I don’t want to leave.”

  And then, before I can blink, he’s gone.

  Chapter 24

  I’m still smiling when I hear the door to the print shop close behind me, as I step out onto the quiet sidewalk. This is the perfect end to a day of running boring errands, including earlier this morning when I finally caved and picked up a new cell phone. Mundane, annoying tasks, but I’m really making an effort at adulting today.
And this, my final trip to the little print shop, is my reward.

  Feeling the plastic bag tap against my hip with each step I take is comforting, just knowing what it holds, and my heart feels fuller for it. I’m about to cross the street when a colorful gleam from a window to my left catches my eye. A jewelry shop? I scoot closer, squinting as I peer inside and scan the items on the store’s display shelf. Huh. I’m not usually the jewelry kind of girl, but there’s a particular little knick-knack perched atop the sale rack that I just can’t resist. I smirk as I reach for the store’s door handle, a fresh wave of flutters rushing through my stomach as I do.

  Not even ten minutes later and I’ve arrived at the inn, pulling the door open to let another guest exit first.

  “Lou!” Claire hollers from her desk as I step inside. She gives Dylan—ugh—a quick parting kiss and signals me over. As he passes by, he nods and his lips curve. Although I’d rather ignore him or flip him off, Claire’s eyes are trained on our interaction, so I manage a tight-lipped smile for her sake.

  “Hey, Claire.” I reach her at the same time the front door closes behind Dylan, then set my bags on the desk.

  Claire quirks an eyebrow and grins, an expression that has me wrinkling my nose in confusion. “What?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her grin widens. “Just that I happened to see a certain someone take you to breakfast this morning.”

  Oh, that. “Bobby didn’t ‘take me to breakfast.’ We went out for a bite, because that’s what friends do. There’s a difference.”

  She narrows her eyes with the resemblance of a foxhound sniffing for clues, but doesn’t press it. Instead, her expression softens as she pulls open her desk drawer and hands me a postcard. “Another one. Someone back in LA really misses you.”

  Oh no. I’m a terrible best friend. I’ve been so caught up with everything going on, I haven’t even replied to her last one. Guilt consumes me as I grab the card and begin reading.