by Abbie Roads
Stop staring at her feet like Little Man drooling over a bone. Touch her—skin to skin.
Fear plunged into his heart sharp as a scalpel. No. He couldn’t allow his bare skin to contact with another human’s flesh. He refused to regress to his childhood—lost in a blur of other people’s memories, not being able to find his reality. Touch amplified his ability. Touch incapacitated him. When he’d started wearing the gloves, he’d gained a critical piece of control.
And yet, he yanked off his gloves. His heart rate, his breath rate jacked up to an almost unbearable level.
What the fuck was he doing?
Not listening to logic. He pressed one finger to her ankle. A wave of calm crested over him, quieting his racing heart, dowsing his ragged breathing, and abating the fear of losing control. No SMs. Millimeter by millimeter he settled his entire hand over her, circling her ankle, thumb meeting middle finger. Her skin was cold over the sharp bones.
No SMs. None. How was that possible?
He didn’t believe in God, but maybe, just maybe, she was created for him. An Eve to his Adam.
What was he thinking? Crazy, crazy, crazy thoughts.
She probably had a brain defect that prevented scents from linking to memories. His olfactory region was overdeveloped. Maybe hers was underdeveloped.
He pulled his hand off her ankle.
Distance. He needed distance between them. He grabbed his gloves and headed for the back door. He glanced at her only once, to make certain she still slept, then left the house.
* * *
An endless plateau of white surrounded Evanee. No sky, no walls. Just white trailing off to infinity.
The White Place. Such a childish name, but she’d named it when she was a child.
She opened her arms wide, tilted her face skyward, letting the tranquility of the space cradle her body. The silence settled her mind. The color calmed her soul. The aloneness healed her heart.
Over the past few months, she’d longed for this escape. But the White Place chose when to admit her. It was a gift granted only in the worst of times.
Growing up, she came here every time she slept. This place rejuvenated her fragmented emotions, granted her the strength to fight, and gave her the will to live when the easier option was suicide.
It’d been a decade since her last visit. Too long.
A sound. She caged the breath in her lungs to listen. Sound had never existed in the White Place.
Fear whispered over the back of her neck, the backs of her arms, the backs of her legs. She was in the presence of a predator. She could sense its malicious energy, its malevolent intent.
The sound—clearer this time.
Humming. The sweet dulcet tones clashed with the suffocating terror coursing through her.
She lowered her arms to her sides, cinched her hands into fists, and turned.
A child, a little girl, her body in profile. Her pink shirt, her hands, her baby-doll blond tresses matted with reddish mud. The glare of color against the pristine white was repulsive. Wrong.
Adrenaline squirted into Evanee’s system. Every muscle mobilized, ready to fight. Or run.
Why was she afraid of a dirty kid?
She could only see the side of the girl’s face, but that was enough to see her beauty. She was the kind of child women were jealous of because they knew how stunning she’d be when she matured. The kind of child every father feared having because the boys wouldn’t leave her alone. The kind of child parents couldn’t help spoiling.
The girl extended her arm, hiding something in her fist. “You must take this.” The girl’s petulant tone raised goose bumps over Evanee’s skin.
“What do you have?” Evanee’s voice quivered.
One by one, the little fingers opened to reveal the child’s treasure.
Round. Puckered. Ashen white. Misty blue circle in the middle.
An eye.
Evanee’s legs wobbled. She stumbled back, opened her mouth to cry out, maybe to scream, but something invisible, immovable, immense grabbed her throat, choked off the sound, and stopped her. She was locked inside the husk of herself, unable to move or breathe or fight.
The girl turned. One side of her face was sweet child perfection, the other an abomination. Blood and flesh congealed in her empty eye socket. Rusty brown smears mixed with scarlet trailing down her cheek, some slithering into her mouth.
Gray spots speckled Evanee’s vision. She was going to pass out; maybe she was going to die. She’d never feared death, used to wish Junior would just kill her instead of playing with her. And disappearing right now from the mess she’d made of her life would be easier than working her way out.
But she didn’t want to die. She wanted to live.
She had an absurd desire to hold Lathan’s hand again. Even though the tattoo on his face made him look more intimidating than anyone she’d ever met, he’d protected her from Junior and that vaulted him way past stranger-danger status to good-guy-hero level.
“You.” The girl’s voice was a command. “Take this.”
The gray spots spread, turned blinding yellow, then black, blotting out the girl. Unable to struggle, unable to breathe, unable to utter a sound, Evanee mouthed the word she wanted to say. No.
“Don’t say no to me.” The girl’s tone deepened beyond its natural level, dipping into the range of the demonic.
The Thing holding Evanee released her. Her knees folded neat as a shirt on the display table at Gap, bringing her down to eye level with the girl. Air sucked into her oxygen-starved lungs. The girl opened her mouth, hurling blood over Evanee in a vindictive arc. The warm slickness of it touched her tongue. Before she could spit it out, its heat snuck down her throat and burned in her belly.
Her arm rose to take the eye. She screamed—she didn’t raise her arm. The Thing did.
The girl dropped the still-warm eye in Evanee’s palm. Across the girl’s face spread the smirky smile of a spoiled child who’d just gotten her way.
* * *
Lathan strode down the lonely road. Shimmering stars pierced the charcoal sky, casting silver light on the pavement meandering among the low hills. A chill breeze carried the feral scents of coyote and possum. Predator and prey.
He stepped into his driveway and headed for his back door. The brisk walk to find the shoes she’d lost out on the road had been exactly what he’d needed to unscramble his thoughts and figure some things out. Some things he couldn’t allow himself to forget.
Not getting any SMs from her was intriguing, but it had to be just a random, happenstance occurrence. She was nothing more than a woman he was helping for the night, and he couldn’t let himself forget that. No matter how miraculous it felt to touch her.
He trudged up the porch steps and through the door. The stench hit him before he made it across the threshold. Garlic. And something rotting, decomposing, dead.
Damn that dog and his fetish for decaying carcasses.
Honey lay on the couch, her gaze locked on Little Man—his two-hundred-pound mastiff. An unfortunate underbite left Little Man’s bottom teeth protruding and made him look like Satan’s best beast rather than man’s best friend.
“That’s Little Man. He’s harmless.” He set her shoes in the middle of the kitchen table so Little Man wouldn’t turn them into tail-wagger toys and looked around for the dead animal. “He won’t hurt you. He’s really just an overgrown puppy.”
She sprang off the couch, hurdled the coffee table, crashing into him with full-body impact. He caught her tightly to him, smelling her fear, feeling it in the butterfly tremors shaking her body.
“I should’ve warned you that he might come in.” He inhaled the scent of her hair—cooking oil, nectarines, and sunshine. “He comes and goes through a dog door in the laundry room.”
Her arms slid around him, holding him so tight sh
e could’ve been his second skin.
His heart crashed against his chest wall. His breath tangled up in his lungs. His gut stung with warmth. She settled her head over his heart. Could she feel it pounding? He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the pleasure of holding her entwine with the regret of knowing this was the first time, the last time, the only time he’d ever be able to hold another human being.
Her lips moved against his chest. He heard the stammering sounds of her speaking.
“…dream…”
Dream. He’d caught only one word of what she’d said. Did she think Little Man was a bad dream?
He half dragged, half carried her to the couch and sat. She didn’t let go of him and ended up across his lap, her buttocks pressing into his dick. Blood drained downward and swelled into his groin. Lava-hot sweat erupted from his pores. Shame formed a molten lump in his gut—knowing what she’d been through, he shouldn’t be reacting to her this way. He shifted, moved her down his legs so she couldn’t feel his arousal, and then started blabbing to distract her.
“The worst thing Little Man would ever do is lick you. His tongue is six inches wide, seems two feet long, and he slobbers. A lot.” Lathan bent his head to see her mouth, hoping for a smile, but she stared at her hand, her lips pulled back over her teeth in repulsed horror.
She lifted her hand, her slender bicep straining and bulging as if whatever she clutched in her fist weighed too much to raise.
Her fingers fanned opened.
Lathan stared at the object she held. His heart stalled and his brain shuddered to a stop, leaving him thoughtless for a few picoseconds, before everything turned back on and shifted gears in a direction he sure as hell didn’t want to go.
Chapter 3
An eye. A human eye. In her hand.
Lathan blinked, not quite believing the message his eyes were sending his brain.
“What the… Where’d you get that?” He scented the air and visually scanned his home—only himself, Little Man, and her. No one else had been inside. Nothing was missing or out of place. “Did you leave the house?”
She didn’t answer. She looked and smelled befuddled, dazed, stunned.
“Did you find it outside?”
No answer.
Why did she have it in her hand? What would possess her to touch it, pick it up? His innards lurched and sank down into his gut. Was the owner of the eye still alive? He suspected they weren’t, and that meant there was a body outside. Nearby.
But he would’ve smelled a body. He was just out there.
Her hand fell, the enucleated orb went with it, bouncing once, then rolling, iris over white, to a stop in the crevice between the cushions. Her body wilted; her head thunked against his shoulder.
He grabbed her chin, shaking her face. “Honey. Wake up. I need some answers here.” But she was twelve-rounds-with-the-champ out. Fuck.
He cradled her limp form against him and reached into his pants pocket to get his cell phone. He took a picture of the eye, sent it to Gill, and followed up with a text.
Human eye on my couch.
Gill was gonna hit an eleven on the freak-o-meter. Either that or think Lathan was trying to punk him. A moment later, Gill responded.
A little late for Halloween.
Seriously.
You fucking with me?
No.
What happened?
IDK, but I’m pretty sure where there’s an eye, there’s a body.
Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. I’ll contact Eric on my way.
For the first time since he’d been hired as a special skills consultant, he was going to demand a favor from the FBI, and they would grant it—without question—for the man who had closed more cold cases than everyone else combined. The most important condition of his contract was that his privacy, his total seclusion, be maintained at all times.
He shoved his arm under Honey’s legs, lifted her tight against his chest, and stood.
“Little Man. Come.”
The dog didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His attention focused on the eye.
Lathan nudged the dog’s thick haunch with his boot until Little Man gave him the look. The I-swear-I’ll-never-chew-on-the-table-legs-ever-again-if-you-just-let-me-have-it, please, please, please look.
“No. Leave it.” He put the You’re-not-allowed-to-play-with-it-or-eat-it tone in his voice. “Little Man. Come.”
Little Man heaved a giant sigh that fanned his massive jowls outward, but stood and headed upstairs. Lathan followed, carrying Honey. By the time he got into the bedroom, Little Man was settled on his mastiff-sized dog bed in the corner.
“Stay.”
Lathan laid Honey in his bed. Her body was deadweight and awkward, so he adjusted her arms, her legs, her head as if she were a life-sized rag doll until she looked comfortable.
He tore off his gloves, pressed his fingers to her neck, and concentrated on finding her pulse. The steady pressure of her heartbeat tapped against his fingertips with a Morse code rhythm all its own. He laid his other hand on her chest, just below her clavicles, to ensure the rise and fall of her breathing. He tried not to notice how close his hand was to her breasts. Failed.
The side of his hand rested next to the gentle slope of her breast. If he fanned out his pinkie finger—no. He pulled his hand away.
She must’ve just passed out.
He went into the bathroom, soaped up half the stack of clean washcloths, and washed the lingering scent of decay from her hand.
Her skin was rough and red, her fingers knobby and strong, her nails ragged and short. She had the body and clothing of a stripper, but he expected something more faux sexy than torn-up fingernails and blistered feet. What kind of job abused her hands and her feet? Nothing seemed to fit.
He had questions and not one answer. What was her name? Why didn’t he get SMs from her? Why was he able to touch her? Where the fuck did she get a human eyeball?
He stared at her face as if the answers were written in the delicate arch of her brows or in the gentle curve of her lashes. Or in the small sickle-shaped scar at the corner of her mouth that curved upward, giving her the curious appearance of smiling out of one side of her mouth, while the other side frowned.
Her eyelids fluttered. Opened.
“How are you feeling?” That question was more appropriate than interrogating her on how she came into possession of a human eyeball. He’d wait until she was fully conscious before tripping down that trail.
“Cold. So cold.” Goose bumps pimpled over her bare skin. She scooted toward where he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping herself around his hips, seeking his body’s warmth.
He should get the heavy sleeping bag from the closet. He should cover her with it and leave the room. He should, he should, he should. He didn’t. He pulled off his boots and eased into the bed. She latched onto him before he fully reclined.
She molded herself to him. His shoulder her pillow, her arm around his middle, one of her legs draped over his thighs, her knee just a few miniscule inches from his groin. Everything vanished, except the vivid sensation of her feminine curves burrowing into him, seeking his safety, his comfort, his warmth. She was cool where he was on fire. She was soft where he couldn’t bend. She was sweet where he felt bitter.
She fit into his arms, against his body, and into his soul like she was designed especially for him. He wanted to believe he could have a happy ending with her, but his reality was a cruel, hard place where good things just didn’t happen. Or if they did, they never lasted.
* * *
Bzzzz.
Evanee’s muscles clenched, and she startled from the sudden sound of a phone vibrating.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
“Shhh… Honey, it’s just my cell,” Lathan whispered against her hair, his breath warm against her skin.
Tension ev
aporated. What exactly was it about his voice that calmed her? Was it the timbre, the accent… It wasn’t quite an accent, more like a lisp, but not? Maybe it wasn’t his voice. Maybe it was him calling her Honey. Maybe it was him taking care of her—not advantage of her—when she had been as rational and coherent as a zombie. The bleeding feather tattoo on his cheek made him appear more intimidating than any man she had ever met, and yet he had saved her from Junior, and that bought her complete trust. Something not one person in her life had ever earned.
“It’s just Gill letting me know he’s arrived. He’ll be handling things, or at least seeing that they get handled privately.” He slid away from her, just far enough to look down at her.
His pale-gray eyes stood out against his tan. No, it wasn’t a tan. He was thickly freckled. Seriously freckled. Boyishly freckled. She should’ve realized that from the rich reddish-brown of his hair. A smile tugged at her soul. How could she think his tattoo frightening when paired with a face full of friendly freckles?
“You’re feeling better.”
It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.
“I’ve got to let Gill in. He’s gonna have some questions for you.”
“Questions for me? About Junior?” She hated the tremor in her voice and cleared her throat. “I don’t want to press charges or anything. That’d just piss everyone off.” Not only would Junior be mad, Sheriff Rob would be angry, and Mom would be furious—at her—for causing Junior trouble.
While she spoke, Lathan’s gaze focused on her mouth. The way he looked at her reminded her of how a man concentrated on a woman’s lips before coming in for a kiss—like he was calculating angle, pressure, distance to the target.
“Not about Junior—”
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
“Take a few minutes—however long you need—then come downstairs.” He got out of bed and headed for the doorway. A colossal black dog rose from the corner and followed Lathan. A shudder ripped through her.
That she’d had a nightmare wasn’t new; that she remembered it was astounding. The dream had felt so real, and the part about waking up with the eye in her hand—total mind fuck. Only when she woke up in his bed with him staring down at her did she realize the entire thing had been one long, gruesome dream.