Dead on the Delta

by Stacey Jay

  “Are you sure?” he asks. “I heard the gun fire.”

  “Yeah … it did,” I mumble, fighting through all the wretched feeling. I’m drowning in it.

  How did I convince myself I was over this man? That I don’t long for him every day, with everything in me? Time, distance, general assholishness on my part and his—none of that matters when his forehead drops to mine.

  “Just talk to me. Are you okay?” He cups my face, pressing our skulls tight. He always did this when we hit a rough patch and I wasn’t talking as much as he would like. It’s as if he thinks he can tap into my brain via our connected skin and bone. There were times when I was sure he did.

  I hope now isn’t one of those times. I don’t want him to know how much I miss him, or that I’m thinking about things like love and the way he used to kiss me. His life is still in danger. I should be focused on saving him, nothing else.

  “Why did you fire the gun, why—”

  “Why did you get out of the car without your suit?” I ask, suddenly angry. None of these feelings or worries would be relevant if he’d just stayed in the damned car. “What were you thinking?”

  He swallows, licks his lips. “I heard the shot and called your name and when you didn’t answer … ” He shakes his head, evidently as shocked by his behavior as I am. “I thought you’d been shot. I thought … And I just … ”

  “I wasn’t shot.” My heart races faster. He cares. He still cares. The knowledge fills me up like helium, making me dizzy. “Neither was anyone else. But there was … something out there.”

  “Something?” he asks, hands at my neck, warm, soothing fingers kneading the knots there. I press even closer, fisting his shirt in my hands, hanging on to him for dear life. His dear life. We’re getting closer. The water drops to our knees and then our shins.

  Still, I’m almost afraid to believe we’re going to make it to the car. The cloud that pulses and hums and hisses above us is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen. The fairies fill the sky, blocking out the moon, replacing its cool light with a toxic mix of pink and gold. Surely they’re not going to let such a big, juicy food source escape just because he’s donned a little war paint?

  “Something big.” I pause, swiping blood from one of the free-flowing bites on my arm and dabbing it on the wet fabric of Hitch’s pants. A few more steps and we’ll be out of the water.

  “Something big like what? A person? An animal?”

  “Let’s talk about it in the car.” My words are a whisper. What am I going to say? I can’t tell him the truth, especially since there’s a good chance it isn’t the truth. It was dark; I have a head injury. I’m probably just … confused. There’s no such thing as invisible men.

  Just like there was no such thing as killer fairies a dozen years ago.

  No. This is different. Fairies have always existed; we simply lacked the technology to observe them until after their mutation. An invisible man reeks of magic, or science so advanced it might as well be magic. Humans aren’t capable of making a person invisible, and I don’t believe in voodoo.

  So what hit me out there? And how to explain that voice in the dark?

  “Let’s get in on the passenger’s side,” Hitch says, the tension in his grip increasing as we ease from the water and start the slow sideways shuffle back to the car. Six feet have never loomed so large. The Fey press closer, swooping down to investigate the ground at our feet, though they keep a safe distance from Hitch’s blood-smeared pants legs. “Then you can crawl over to the driver’s side.”

  “Too shook up to drive?” I ask.

  He laughs, a short, breathy sound. “Yeah. A little shook up, a little high on life. I thought I was a dead man.”

  “You almost were.” I don’t say what we’re both thinking, that he still could be a dead man if the fairies get up the guts to attack before we make it to the car.

  I glance toward the cruiser, squinting into the bright blue and white. Three more feet. I turn back to Hitch, stare up into his eyes, breathe his breath, will a shield of safety to surround him. His fingers dig into the skin at my hips and his head tilts just the slightest bit closer to mine, making my breath come faster.

  “We’re almost there,” he says.

  “We are.” The urge to hurry him to safety presses in, but I force my feet to keep step with Hitch’s slow, steady pace. Rushing the last few feet will only attract the fairies’ attention, make them realize their chance at a big feed will soon be gone. Instead, I concentrate on keeping my body as close to Hitch’s as possible, trying to ignore the way the feel of him pressing against me makes me shiver.

  Finally, my ass bumps up against the cool iron and steel of the police car. I fumble behind me, finding the door handle and pulling it open the barest crack. I glance over Hitch’s shoulder, scanning as much of the ground and air as I can see. “I think we’re clear. Mostly. Probably.”

  “Good. Let’s go back to front, you slide in sitting on my lap,” Hitch says, spinning me carefully around, keeping his vulnerable non-bloodied front covered.

  His arm comes tight around my waist and then, suddenly, I’m in the air, stomach lurching as he hauls us both into the car with a speed that makes my head spin. The door has barely slammed closed behind us when splashes of pink and gold thud against the window, fairies dashing in too late and ending up eating glass instead of human flesh.

  “Holy shit,” I gasp, flinching when another fairy hits and then another before they seem to realize they’re not getting through police-grade glass.

  “Sorry.” Hitch’s breath comes fast and shallow. “Adrenaline overload.”

  “It’s okay.” I search the car, making certain nothing has followed us inside before turning back to the door and hitting the power locks. Outside, the fairies are starting to disperse, flitting away in twos and threes and batches of fifteen or twenty.

  They’re leaving. We’re safe. Hitch is safe.

  For the first time in the past half hour, the tension level in my body cruises down to something near normal. Ready for a break from the flashing lights, I punch off the white and blues, the subtle movement reminding me that I’m sitting in my ex-boyfriend’s lap. His arm still circles my waist, his strong thighs cradle mine, and my ass nestles close to where I swear I feel the beginnings of something …

  Maybe I’m not the only one thinking of the way we used to be, the ways we used to move together.

  “Thank you.” His breath is hot against my neck, lips so close they kiss at my skin when he speaks. My pulse picks up, throbbing in my throat. “You saved my life.”

  “Thanks for trying to save mine.” I turn to look at him, knowing I should hurry into the driver’s seat, but enjoying this brief intimacy too much to end it. As I move, our noses almost touch and his hand slides lower, trailing into dangerous territory. Long fingers curl over my inner thigh with an air of possession, and something at the heart of me catches fire.

  “I don’t deserve thanks.” His eyes watch my lips and I fight the urge to slip my tongue out to wet them. “I wasn’t even thinking, I just … I had a moment of clarity.”

  “An unthinking moment of clarity?”

  He smiles, a flash of teeth that’s quickly absorbed by the darkness. It’s harder to see without the strobes, but I prefer the shadows. They’re safer, more inclined to keep my secrets. “If I’d thought about it, I would have taken the time to suit up. But when I heard those gunshots … ” He shrugs, shifting me slightly on his lap, bringing me closer. When he speaks again, his voice is a whisper that feathers across my lips. “I didn’t want to think of a world without you.”

  “Hating me is that much fun?”

  His fingers squeeze my leg; I pull in a shaky breath. “It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying if you were dead.”

  “So you really do hate me?” I try to keep my voice light, but fail. It’s impossible to sound carefree when asking him the question I’ve held inside all these years. A part of me wants to know if I have a chance to be
forgiven, if maybe someday we might be friends. The other part of me doesn’t want to hear the truth, doesn’t want to know that I hurt a man so deeply that he hates me six years later.

  Hitch’s index finger traces a gentle path back and forth across my soaked pants, making me burn.

  Who am I kidding? Hitch and I will never be friends.

  “I don’t hate you.” He sounds so sad. Hating me is a commandment he’s broken. Thou shalt hate the girl who broke your heart: it’s right after Thou shalt not sleep with your boyfriend’s relatives.

  A sour taste rushes into my mouth. I try not to think about Hitch’s brother, but I can still recall the smoke and salt smell of his skin the morning I awoke naked in his bed, whiskey scalding my stomach and pain all over.

  I raced to the bathroom and was sick until it felt like my insides had been scooped out with a shovel, but purging did nothing to banish the self-loathing, to blunt the disgust when Anton shuffled into the bathroom wearing nothing but a smile and told me I was the best he’d ever had.

  The wildest, the most shameless, the dirtiest little slut.

  I didn’t say a word, just clenched my legs to hide the dried blood on my thighs, gritted my teeth against the bruised feeling inside, grabbed my clothes, and rushed out the door. I couldn’t remember the night before. Maybe he was telling the truth and I’d banged his brains out by my own free will. Maybe he was lying and I’d fought him the way my body told me I had. There was no way to know for sure. Just like there was no way to know if Hitch would have believed me if I’d told him what really happened, if I’d met his anger the night after he found out with truth instead of my own misplaced rage.

  It’s too late, and that memory is a rotted piece of the past that should stay dead and buried.

  Too bad the past feels so present with Hitch’s arms around me, Hitch’s lips so perilously close to my own.

  “No, I don’t hate you,” he says again. “I should, I guess, but I don’t.”

  I swallow, willing my throat to loosen. “You don’t sound like you’re too happy about that.”

  “Happy.” His voice fondles the word before chucking it toward the bayou with a soft grunt. “I haven’t been really happy in awhile … ”

  Me either. Despite my beautiful, sweet lover, my charming hometown, and my well-paying job, nothing has felt truly good for so long. So, so long. I haven’t allowed it to, I haven’t dared. But maybe I could … if I could get up the guts to tell Hitch the truth, to tell him I don’t remember, and that I’m sorry. So sorry.

  “I know it was … a long time ago.” My heart slams in my chest, fear and exhilaration rushing inside me. “But I’m sorry, and I want you to know I—”

  “Shut up.” And then he kisses me, soft and slow and so, so sweet.

  Hitch’s kiss is morning sunshine creeping through the window to warm the sheets, it’s honey in smoky tea, it’s a blues song that oozes through your mind and leaves more space for your soul behind. But tonight, it’s also a bucket of tears, rain that will never quit falling, an ocean that gobbles up ships and sucks them down into the depths.

  There’s always been sadness hidden at the core of Hitch, but it’s never been big enough to taste. Occasionally, I’d get a whiff of it, salty on the wind, but it never pressed in between us like it does now, threatening to drown us both. His tongue flicks against mine, his teeth nibble at my lip, his hands wander over my body with an easy familiarity, but beneath every wave of desire, every swift breath, there is the pain.

  Pain and hurt and betrayal.

  Our past and present are tainted, poisoned and wrong despite the fact that touching Hitch feels so right. His hand up my shirt, sliding to cup my breast, is like coming home—and being kicked out onto the street—all at the same time. And then there’s Cane. I never promised him anything, not even exclusive dating privileges, but he deserves better than this. I care about him, I care about Hitch, and a part of me even cares about myself. This isn’t a good idea for any of us. No matter which way you turn it.

  From this place, there is no future, no way out to anything better.

  I was going to pull away and tell Hitch so, tell him we had to at least try to talk. I really was … even before he ripped his mouth from mine and vomited into the driver’s seat.

  Twelve

  Oh, shit.” Hitch groans and the curdled smell of sickness fills the car. My nose automatically closes itself off, but breathing through my mouth doesn’t help much.

  “What’s wrong?” Is my breath really that bad? Sure, I had some wings and a beer, but I practice excellent oral hygiene. I’m a religious flosser. I love to floss. I live to floss.

  “Something bit me while I was under the water. I thought it was just a nonvenomous water snake,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth. Even in the dim light I can see the sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Thinking now … it might have been a cottonmouth.”

  My stomach turns to stone. It’s peak water moccasin season and peak bite time. We’re less than fifteen minutes from the hospital, but if the snake hit an artery or vein or near a primary lymph node, Hitch could be dead before we reach the iron gate.

  “Where’s the bite? Let me see.” I shift over, sitting on the center console, my neck twisting as my head hits the roof of the car.

  Hitch yanks up the right side of his pant leg, revealing two puncture wounds below his knee. They’re already red and swollen, and leaking a light pink fluid. It’s definitely a cottonmouth bite. Shit.

  I reach for his leg, but he bats my hand away. “No, don’t touch it, I just need to stay calm and keep my leg below my heart until we get to the—”

  “You need to take your shoe off,” I say. “If your extremities start to swell, you—”

  “They can cut my shoe off, I don’t care.”

  “What about necrosis?” I ask. “They might have to cut your foot off if—”

  “There’s going to be some tissue death associated with a moccasin bite. The sooner you get me to a place with a good store of antivenin, the less extensive the necrosis.”

  I sigh, giving up on his damned shoe. “Fine, whatever you say, doctor.”

  “That’s right, dropout.” He’s trying to make a joke, but the sickly beads of sweat popping out on his lip ruin the punch line. Time for less talk, more driving.

  “Just relax, the hospice is only a block from the police station. We’ll be there before you know it.” I slide into the driver’s seat with a full-body cringe as warm vomit soaks into my already wet clothes.

  I could have tried to open the door and scoop some of it out, but there are still a few fairies outside and I can’t waste any more time. I start the car and pull out with a spray of gravel, ignoring the oozing sensation around my legs and the way my tongue cramps at the back of my throat, begging me to indulge my gag reflex. It’s just vomit. I’ve seen and handled worse on a daily basis. Usually with gloves on, but still … I can stomach this.

  Despite the opinions of some, I am a professional.

  The trip to the hospital is a blur. I vaguely remember slowing down at the gate—heart racing as we waited the seemingly interminable three seconds for it to swing open—and swerving to avoid a black SUV with its bass turned up loud enough to throb in my chest, but it’s almost as if the narrow drive leading to the hospice’s emergency room simply appears before me. Like magic.

  I’ve never driven that fast, especially while chattering on a police radio and placing a few phone calls. Luckily, Cane and Stephanie were still at the station when I jumped on the radio. Now, they wait outside the emergency room doors, next to Jonathan, the burliest male nurse in D’Ville, and Connie, our one and only doctor.

  It must be a slow night. I’ve never seen Connie curbside. She usually makes everyone wait at least an hour, even if they’re nursing a stab wound. But I suppose the FBI gets preferential treatment, and a venomous snakebite is nothing to mess around with.

  Jonathan pushes a wheelchair chair around to Hitch�
��s side of the car and Connie follows, throwing open the door and helping Hitch out. “We’ve got the antivenin prepped, Dr. Rideau,” she says, a chubby brown hand patting Hitch’s shoulder as she eases him down into the chair. “We’ll have you up and fighting bad guys in no time.”

  She peeks into the car long enough to wrinkle her nose and shoot a disgusted look in my direction before she and Jonathan are gone, wheeling Hitch around the front of the cruiser. I can’t tell if the nasty look was for me or for the vomit, but I decide to blame the puke. Connie’s never been my biggest fan—she resents the fact that I refuse to come in for treatment until I’m practically dying of pneumonia and have to be admitted—but I don’t think she has anything personal against me.

  I reach for the handle of my door, but Cane gets there first. “How fast did you drive, girl? I can’t believe—Hot damn.” The hand he’d reached in to help me moves to cover his nose and mouth.

  “The snake venom made him sick. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up,” I say, easing my legs out of the car.

  “You don’t have to clean it up. That’s what Dicker’s for.” Cane recovers with a tight smile. “Come on out of there. I’ll call him back in, have him pick up the cruiser, and get it detailed tonight.”

  I stand. Chunks of whatever Hitch last ate fall from my pants to plop onto the concrete. Ew. Blechk. Gag. I peer down at myself, wondering if it would be appropriate to strip off my clothes and burn them where I stand. As I tip my head, the ground tilts and the world spins. I stumble and might have fallen if Cane hadn’t grabbed me and held tight.

  “Baby, what happened to your arm?” Cane’s touch is gentle as he adjusts his grip, transferring the hand at my elbow to my waist.

  “A few fairies bit me. It’s okay, I just need a shower and some Band-Aids.” I lean into him, grateful for his strength but feeling guilty for the taste of Hitch that lingers on my tongue. “Will you take me home?”

  “You can’t go home,” Stephanie says from her spot near the entrance to the ER.