Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  It’s me again, Bitch!

  I’m coming to visit you! Mom and Daniel are keeping the girls next weekend so we can have a sleepover like the good ol’ days. I’m thinking we’re long overdue for a girls’ night! Hope you’re free Saturday and Sunday. Otherwise, clear your schedule, slut, because there’s no way in hell you’re backing out of this.

  P.S. I’m pumping enough milk to last baby Audrey a few days, so you better prepare yourself to get shit-faced with me.

  P.P.S. You’re still beautiful.

  xx

  It’s only Sunday, and already next weekend can’t get here soon enough. It hits me then that I’m grinning . . . on a Sunday. Well this is new. “Hey, you have plans Saturday night?” I ask Claire.

  She pauses, eying the ceiling in thought, then says, “Nope, don’t think so.”

  “Want to come over? My friend Jamie’s going to be visiting, and we’re gonna do another girls’ night kinda thing.”

  Claire doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes! I’m in!” She pauses, eyes dropping to the small plastic bags between us. “Did you go on a mini shopping spree?”

  I shrug, remaining casual so she doesn’t make too big a deal out of it. “Not really. Just picked up a few things for my room. Anyway, what’s the story with you and Dylan?” It’s a good way to change the subject, but it’s also a question that’s been eating at me.

  “Story?” The notepad sitting in front of her must have suddenly become very interesting, because she picks it up, squints down, and flips through its pages.

  “Yeah, like how’d you guys meet?”

  She chuckles, tearing her eyes away from the pad to meet mine. “We’re in Ashwick. Everyone knows everyone.”

  I arch a brow. “You know what I mean.”

  She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the desk. “He was my big high school crush,” she explains. “Honestly, I think everyone knew I liked him. But the timing never worked out until after we graduated, and now . . . well, here we are.” She’s smiling when she looks back up at me, and unfortunately, I can see how much she likes him just by the dreamy look in her eyes.

  “How long have you been together?”

  “About nine months.” Almost a year. Great. I really hope his whole sleazebag act is just that—an act, and that he’s more loyal than he appears. “So,” she says, flashing me pearly white teeth, “Dylan and I are participating in the winter festival, and I think you should come! We’ll have our own booth and—”

  Just as I’m about to interrupt with a made up excuse, the phone rings and saves the day. I really don’t want to lie to her, but my desire to be stuck behind a booth as Dylan ogles over other girls when Claire’s not looking is probably right up there with stabbing my eyeball.

  Claire frowns. “Sorry, better get that.”

  “It’s fine,” I whisper, grabbing my bags as she puts the phone to her ear. “I’ll talk to you later.” She waves, and I head up the stairs.

  I take my time with the photographs I’d just picked up, carefully pressing them into small frames and figuring out the right places to set them. There’s one picture that’s always been my favorite, and I decide to fix that one in the center of the fireplace mantle. It’s the perfect spot; facing the bed when I wake in the morning and still visible when I enter my room. I play with the angle a little, then drop my hands and take a step back, admiring the image.

  Grams sits on the front porch I know so well, perched on the top step and wearing her wistful smile, brown eyes wise and at peace. Mom is right beside her, grinning, legs crisscrossed and one arm draped over Grams’s shoulders, the other arm hugging her perfectly round belly . . . hugging me. Dad’s leaning over Mom, embracing her tightly and beaming in a way that’s remarkably whole.

  I wipe the corner of my eye before the tear can fall, then press a kiss to my fingers, and my fingers to the photograph. “I miss you guys,” I whisper, wishing they could hear the words.

  Straightening my spine, I take in a deep breath and lift my chin. I don’t know when, or if, he’s going to show up today, but if it’s anything like the past few days, I’m guessing I have no more than an hour. I should probably take a bath sooner rather than later so it doesn’t look like I’m making a move on him. Again.

  My time in the bath is filled mostly with thoughts about the notes I found at Mr. Blackwood’s place. I still don’t know what to do about those, or if I should do anything at all. How could I ignore them though? Best case scenario, I ask the old man about it, and it turns out to be something really silly. He’ll probably hate me for prying, maybe even put my job on the line, but at least I’d know no one’s in trouble. Worst case scenario, the messages turn out to be even more serious than I’m willing to imagine. Ugh. I rub my temples, then lay back and rinse the rest of the conditioner from my hair. Any way I look at it, I know I can’t ignore them. Even now, the letters flash like neon lights in my brain whenever there’s nothing to distract me.

  I AM NOT DEAD.

  I CAN’T HOLD ON.

  SAVE ME.

  No, I won’t ignore them. I’ve made my choice. At some point during this coming week, I’m confronting Mr. Blackwood about them. Satisfied with my decision, I pull myself from the water and towel dry, patting myself down before dressing in a comfy pair of shorts and an oversized top. I withdraw my new, black phone from its shopping bag and scroll through the apps.

  Really, I should be emailing my realtor back. I have two notifications from him, both subject lines reading Interested Buyer! But those two words aren’t pleasing me like I thought they would. What they do manage to do is close my throat up and tighten my chest. So instead, I happily ignore the emails and download a music app.

  It’s been way too long since I’ve blasted music, and the anticipation already has me feeling lighter. I hit play, smiling when Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You blares through the speakers.

  Closing my eyes, I let the beat run all the way through me. God, I’ve missed you, music. My head rolls forward, then side to side as I slowly soak it in. I inhale, feeling my muscles loosen as they respond to the lull, and start a smooth sway in my hips. Side to side, like my head, and then my feet are feeling it too.

  I’m lost in the melody, consumed by the hypnotic spell only the magic of music can induce, the curves of my body moving without thought. Hips swaying, right, left, right, left, head falling back so my hair tumbles down my back. My body gets warmer as I move, a fire burning through my veins. My teeth grab hold of my bottom lip, and I think my hands are in my hair, when I hear the low, raspy sound of a throat being cleared.

  I jump, my hand snapping to my chest, until my now wide eyes land on him, and I relax. “Shit,” I manage, breathless.

  I honestly don’t know what’s knocked the breath out of me more—the dancing, or the way he’s looking at me right now.

  He’s leaning against my dresser, his left forearm resting on the top and his head tilted just slightly, thick eyelashes shadowing specks of green as he watches me. His lips though, they send my pulse into overdrive. They’re hooked up lazily at one corner, just enough to display that single dimple he let me glimpse last night. It’s a simple look, but seeing it on him, and knowing it’s aimed at me, it reminds me of the last words he spoke to me. Sometimes . . . I don’t want to leave. My stomach flips, full somersault.

  “Hi,” he says, his voice both gentle and hypnotic.

  I smile, already roped in and unable to look away. “Hi.”

  Chapter 25

  I realize after a second I’m still frozen in place, so I stroll over to my phone and lower the volume until it fades into the background. I turn to him. “I didn’t hear you.”

  He’s still wearing that hint of a crooked smile. “Decided to give your furniture a break.”

  I quirk an eyebrow, my heart skipping a beat as I take in his words. “Did you just make a joke?”

  His face stills for a moment, eyes flicking away, as though registering something, before settling back on me. “I
guess I did.”

  I feel myself smile, take a step toward him. “I like it.”

  This time it’s his brow that shoots up. “Yeah? I have more.” His expression gets thoughtful again, eyes narrowing. “Your nightstand came on to me a little too strong last night. Think I’m going to have to break things off.”

  I snort out a laugh, a jolt coursing through me as I try to absorb this new side of him. “We’ll have to work on it a little.”

  His smile widens just enough to let me know he’s pleased by my reaction, and it squeezes my heart. I cock my head to one side, squinting as I inspect him closer. How does he even know what it means to come on to someone? To break things off?

  “You seem different tonight.” My voice is soft, still lost in my thoughts.

  It’s the same thing I’d noticed when he showed up last night, a distinct change in his demeanor. I still see it now, in the relaxed way his broad shoulders sit, the expressiveness of those vibrant eyes, the almost informal body language. Whatever it is, it was subtler yesterday; only obvious to someone looking close enough, as I had been. But now, it’s enhanced tenfold somehow, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  He smoothly pushes his weight off the dresser with his hip, then shifts his gaze toward the unlit fireplace. As he nips at his bottom lip, he runs a hand through his tousled hair. “I feel different.”

  “How’s that?” I settle into the rocking chair, tucking one foot beneath me.

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs—another gesture I’ve never seen from him before—making his way to the loveseat and lowering himself down. It takes him a minute to answer, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so lost in thought before. Finally, he lets out a long, low sigh before turning his head to me. “In every sense of the word.”

  I want to ask what he means, but I get the impression he might not even understand it himself. “And what do you think? Does it scare you?”

  “No. Not anymore. Now, it feels almost,” he shakes his head, “familiar.”

  Our gazes stay locked, mine completely enthralled by the way the green blaze of his eyes so wholly overshadows the darkness now. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, his chin angled to the right as he watches me. We seem to do a lot of that, watching each other, and I always wonder if he feels it like I do, this pull. This tug between us, like a warm, soft line of thread linking me to him.

  As usual, I’m the first to break our staring contest. “So . . .” I stand and walk toward my nightstand, where the plastic bags sit. “I got you something.”

  I take a seat right beside him, close enough that our legs touch, and try to act casual—like I don’t feel the heat of his body burning through his jeans, rubbing against the bare skin of my thigh. I ignore the way his body stiffens at my nearness, muscles pulling taut. I keep my eyes down, on the box in my hand, as I fumble to open it.

  The lid finally pops up, revealing two rings. One is dainty, a silver band designed to appear like two vines twisting into one another, with a black, oval stone sitting in its center. The other is more masculine, a thick, stainless steel band with a simple, black design etched into the sides. That one has a dark rectangular stone at its center.

  “These,” I say, “are rings.” I take the dainty one and am about to slip it onto my middle finger, when I pause, lifting my head to look at him.

  He’s not looking at the rings, but at me. His brows are drawn, but his eyes are tender, almost sad, and I can’t place the expression at all. “You got me something,” he says, as if to himself.

  “I know it seems silly,” I rush to elaborate, feeling the need to explain my gift choice, “but it’s not just any ring. It’s a mood ring.”

  “A what?”

  I grin, my excitement growing at the thought of showing him what it does. “A mood ring. I figured with you being so new to emotions and all, this might be fun.” With my free hand, I pluck the more masculine looking ring from the box and hand it to him. “I hope it fits.”

  Gently taking the ring from me, he holds it level with his eyes, rotating the item in his fingers for inspection. “What does it do, exactly?”

  “Here, we’ll start with mine. Watch the stone.” I slide it down my finger, then hold up my hand in front of us, so we can both see it equally. We stare as the stone’s black color turns cloudy. Specks of a bright, sky blue swirl in the middle of it until the blue takes over completely. Déjà vu? I can’t help but be reminded of the way his eyes swirl from black to green.

  “What does it mean?” he asks.

  “I have no idea,” I admit, chuckling softly. “I’ve never actually worn one of these things. Oh, it comes with a chart!” I sound way more excited than I probably should be, considering it’s just a silly toy, but I can’t help it. It’s like his raw curiosity is contagious, sparking my own interest in the smallest things.

  I untuck a small, folded paper from the bottom of the box and hold it up before us, scanning down the color schemes until I see an explanation for bright blue. I read it aloud. “Bright blue means you are doing something stimulating or something that makes you excited.”

  He shifts his head back toward me, a small smile playing at his lips. “And are you?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper, yet every syllable of that freaking low hum seeps inside my body, loud and clear. “Stimulated, I mean?”

  Oh, like he had to clarify.

  Damn color chart. Suddenly flustered by being at the receiving end of his undivided attention, especially with the way our thighs still brush together from any slightest movement, I scoff and roll my eyes.

  “It’s not real,” I explain. “The store clerk told me this whole thing is based on your body temperature. Apparently, the average person’s body temp will turn the ring green. It gets into the blues the hotter the body is. Obviously, my body heats up around you because you’re so hot.” Did I seriously just say that? “Not like, hot, hot. I mean, not that you aren’t that kind of hot . . .”

  Jesus. I glance away and bite down on my lip, scrambling for any way to seem less like I’m, once again, hitting on him. Then I realize maybe I’m safe; maybe he doesn’t even know the double meaning of that particular word. I mean, he didn’t even know what a handshake was, right? Wary, I slowly turn my head back toward him, lifting my chin. I’m really hoping to find a confused look on his face. Unfortunately, what I find is anything but.

  He’s definitely smiling now, the ridiculously cute dimple in full effect. The simple curve of his full lips is easy and honest, genuine. Bringing my gaze upward, I’m surprised when his eyes don’t match such a pure smile. No, there’s nothing pure about the dangerous, almost daring, spark dancing in the green flames. I don’t know if it’s my stubbornness, my desire to take on the unspoken challenge—whatever the hell that is—but I can’t look away.

  “Go on.” The huskiness behind the gentle command slides down my skin like warm, thick honey. “You were telling me how hot I make you.” The corner of his lips hooks up again, smooth and slow.

  “What?” I murmur, dazed-like, until I snap myself out of his spell and shake my head. Dammit. He knows exactly what he’s doing. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  My eyes narrow. “You know what.”

  If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t totally know why I’m complaining. It’s not as though I don’t like the reactions he causes in my body, the quickening of my pulse, the warm sensations spiking low in my stomach—amongst other places. But I’ve never seen him blatantly flirt with me either, and there are too many sides to him for me to make sense of. In fact, that wasn’t just flirting. It was one step away from dirty-talk territory.

  How exactly does one talk dirty with Death, anyway?

  Shaking it off before my imagination can run wild with that one, I clear my throat. “Your turn. Put it on,” I urge, mindlessly tapping his knee with my hand. I know I just told him to shut up, but I can’t resist when I casually say, “Let’s see if you’re as hot as I am.�
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  His gaze lights up when it flicks to mine, but then he goes serious as he focuses on the ring in his hand. He slides it over his middle finger, like mine, but it won’t budge past the middle knuckle. His eyes are curious when he looks back at me, waiting for something to happen.

  I nod toward his hand. “Keep your eyes on the ring. The stone.”

  He obliges, and I have to lean closer to see the change this time. It’s so subtle as the black in his stone becomes the darkest possible shade of blue. He presses his lips together. “Do I want to know?”

  I laugh softly, then glance down at the color chart to read it aloud. “Dark blue indicates romance or passion. Something electric is in the air if you see dark blue.”

  Chapter 26

  I’m chewing my lip again when I lower the chart and turn back to him. Note to self: never buy a mood ring again. “Like I said, it doesn’t actually mean anything. Your ring turned dark blue because you’re impossibly ho . . .”—Nope, not making that mistake again—“Thermogenic.”

  I grin, full and proud. That’s right. Good luck dirty-talking that one, mister.

  A low, guttural sound bubbles up through his throat, past a smile that shows off a row of perfectly straight, white teeth that I’ve never seen on display before, his shoulders and chest shaking. Oh my god. He’s laughing. And it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard him make—that’s saying something. It’s a deep rumble, soft yet intoxicating, and it caresses everything from my ears to my neck, right through my chest, my stomach, until it hits the tips of my toes, literally making them curl.

  After a beat, it quiets, his shoulders still shaking gently as he lets out a sigh. But it’s not a frustrated sigh, or even pensive, like the ones he’s given me before. It’s as close to carefree as I’ve ever seen from him. He runs a large hand through those thick strands of hair, then relaxes deeper into the seat, a hint of a smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth when he looks at me.