Touch If You Dare

by Stephanie Rowe

  “It appeared she was trying to save Jarvis from his hate-monster, rescue her sister from some over-sexed orgasm factory, while trying to reap some dude who smelled like rotting bananas.” Cameron sighed dreamily. “I would have loved to hit up the sister and her lover with a couple arrows. They would have melted pavement. I’m going to have to find them and give them a jump start. I could get off just watching those two.”

  Death rubbed his jaw. So, Reina had been rescuing her sister and trying to harvest Augustus at the same time? That was kind of impressive, actually. That wasn’t the easiest of multi-tasking.

  Who knew. Maybe after the sister had kicked the bucket, Reina would actually become competent enough to promote… He started laughing at the thought. There was no chance Reina Fleming was going to become a full Reaper.

  He couldn’t allow it. She was simply too soft. In fact, he was going to have to let her go once Cameron was on board (a good boss could only delegate full Reaper power to so many people, right? Can’t dilute the talent). Too bad, but one of the costs of business. The money always came first, and now that he knew how lucrative Cam was going to be, there was no room for ordinaries like Reina. The gal would have to move on.

  But Jarvis was not so easily trifled with. “Did you kill your brother by any chance? Or did Napoleon? Speaking of which, where is the old man?”

  “He was trying to choke Angelica’s location out of the banana hammock guy.” Cameron swung around and sat cross-legged on the desk.

  Death was going to have to get a new desk.

  “And no, I didn’t kill my brother.” Cameron rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t be bothered. He was going insane and wanting me to sully myself by touching his hate. Hello?” He fluffed his locks. “Does this look like the mane of a man who would soil himself? No, he can go do what he likes. I am above him.”

  That meant Jarvis was still at-large and coming after Cameron. Death was well acquainted with the Guardian of Hate from the warrior’s years of incarceration. He was formidable, determined, and quite talented. If he wanted his brother back, he would get him, unless Death cemented his bond with the Guardian of Love first. There was no way in hell Death was going to lose out on this gold mine. “You’re right.”

  Cameron cocked his neck to the side, and a sharp crack echoed through the office. “Of course I am, but what are you referring to?”

  “There’s no reason to hold you back from world peace. From your new role as an assassin. We’ll find someone for you to reap before Friday. I wouldn’t want you to backslide from your happy place.” It was time to cement Love’s role before Jarvis showed up and screwed it up. Death was sure he still could arrange a substantial financial windfall even if he moved up the date.

  “Really? Today?” Cameron whooped, leapt off the desk, and began to skip around the office.

  “Yes, I’ll make a few calls and have something in place in the next few hours.”

  “I’m so excited!” He grabbed his bow and began shooting arrows all over the office. “Yay! I’m alive! Do you hear me, world? I’m coming to save you!” He threw back his head and let out a catcall of total glee.

  Death yanked the bow out of his hand.

  “Hey!” Cameron lunged for it, and Death backhanded it into a gap in the wall. The golden bow slipped through the opening and was gone.

  “My light! My life!” Cameron pressed his face against the crack. “Mirabelle, my dear love! Come back to Daddy!”

  “Mirabelle isn’t coming back until you get yourself new arrows that do not involve my logo or my belongings.” Death yanked an arrow out of his framed, autographed copy of “Ode to the Afterlife,” written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow upon his relocation to the land of posies and champagne. On the tip of the arrow was the monogrammed penis ring Death had commissioned when he was eighteen. There was still space on it to add the initials of the woman he would wear it for. He shoved the ring into his pocket. “It’s non-negotiable. Find a new tip for your poles, or it’s off.”

  Cameron opened his mouth to protest, and then he must have seen something in Death’s eyes. “Okay, yeah, fine. I can live with that, buddy. You have a need, and I’m there with you.”

  Some sort of happy feeling bloomed inside Death at the idea of being buddies with the being that encompassed love in all its forms, and then he scowled. “There are no friends in business.”

  “Oh, well, gee, Mr. Grumpy. Lighten up—”

  “Go to my design department and have them come up with a new logo for you. We need something worthy of the combined efforts of your powers and mine. It has to be brilliant, unique, and utterly memorable.” He raised his brows and leaned back in his chair. “You can handle that, I presume?”

  “You bet! Can it be gold? I love gold.”

  “Of course.”

  “And can I get matching wrist cuffs?” Cameron held up his arms. “I’ve always wanted wrist cuffs. There’s something so gladiator about that, you know? Those were real men.”

  “Yes, yes.” Death waved him off as he started typing on his computer. “I’ll find someone for you to reap and some investors. Be back here by four o’clock with new arrows and clothes.”

  “Aye, aye on the arrows. Not a chance on the clothes.” Cameron strode toward the door, wiggling his hips with just a trifle too much flourish given the cellulite bouncing around back there. “I can’t deprive the world of their fantasies, you know.” He snatched two arrows out of the door and tossed them at Death. “Just so you know, those arrows are still laced with love for the next few hours.”

  Death caught them easily in one hand. “So?”

  “So, if Miss Pastry Chef comes by, be careful what you sit on.” Cameron winked. “Or don’t be so careful. Your call.”

  “Don’t insult me. I’m the most sought after male in existence.” Death threw the arrows into the corner. “I can get a woman to fall in love with me on my own. I would never stoop to an arrow.”

  Cameron poked his head back in the almost closed door. “Then why, my good friend, are you still alone?”

  ***

  There was nothing like seeing one of your fellow torture victims to make everything feel hunky dory. Or at least it made the fast track toward explosion seem a little less lonely.

  Keeping Rocco anchored on his shoulder, Jarvis held the door to his penthouse suite open for Reina.

  Nigel was sunning himself on the patio, wearing nothing but a bandana around his throat. Scars raked across his abdomen, and there was a new painting of a red and gold phoenix emblazoned across his chest. The sun was making the gold sparkle as if the bird was actually taking a siesta on the chest of a psychotic warrior with sensitivity issues. “Hey, painter boy, we’re home. Is dinner ready?”

  Nigel rolled to his feet with the grace of a tiger. “You bring the vamp with you?” His eyebrows shot up when he saw Reina, and he immediately filched his hard core leather pants off a nearby lounge. “Sorry, Reina. Didn’t realize he was bringing girls home with him already.”

  “Girls?” She shot Jarvis a curious look. “No, just me, this time.”

  “I don’t bring any girls home,” Jarvis muttered. “You’re my first, for hell’s sake.” Not that it mattered. Seriously. It wasn’t like they were dating. But he wanted to make it clear anyway, you know. Just ’cause.

  Reina said nothing, but he saw her mouth curve in a small smile. She was possessive of him? Huh. He didn’t really mind. Felt kinda good, actually.

  But for good measure, he glared at Nigel anyway as he strode into his place. No need for the artist to interfere in Jarvis’s personal life. Then he saw Nigel’s concerned expression and his annoyance faded. “I’m fine,” he muttered.

  “Are you?” Nigel took Rocco from Jarvis and slung him over his shoulder. “We need you. Don’t be an ass and get yourself killed. The boys would cry.”

  Jarvis ground his jaw. “They’d party.”

  “Yeah, sure they would.” Nigel gave him a long look. “You fight this mother fucker off,�
� he said quietly. “We’re not letting you go down now that you’re free. Just so you know.” Before Jarvis could answer, he began walking down the hall. “I’ll take a look at the kid. Stay here with Reina and find motivation to stay the fuck alive.” Nigel disappeared down the hall to the guest bedroom where they’d set up a sick bay.

  Jarvis stared after them, unsettled by Nigel’s words. What did Nigel mean, they weren’t letting him go down? No way should his team be risking themselves to save him. Yeah, true, it was their code, but there were limits. Hell. He was going to have to dodge them and go solo, wasn’t he?

  “They care about you,” Reina observed, sounding pleased.

  Jarvis scowled and walked over to the fridge to get hydrated. “They’re loyal teammates.”

  “No, it’s more than that.” She was studying him. “They know how dangerous you are, and they still care about you. You do realize that you couldn’t have so many people wanting you to live if you were nothing but hate, don’t you?”

  He handed her a water bottle. “Let it go, Reina.”

  Her mouth tightened as she took the drink, and he felt bad for rejecting her overture. But it was the right call. Her words made him want things to be different, and he couldn’t afford that.

  Reina turned away, giving him her back. “Your place is interesting.”

  She had her hands on her hips and was surveying his penthouse suite. Her shoulders were back and there was a determined jut to her chin. She wasn’t going down, and she wasn’t going to abandon him. Shit, he wasn’t going to go solo, was he? He had Reina with him, a woman he couldn’t contaminate. He didn’t have to be careful with her. He could simply be himself. She might not be a warrior, but she was his weapon, that was for damn sure. He needed her, and he couldn’t afford to piss her off enough to make her bail on him. So, he managed a decent smile of acknowledgement to her comment about his place, and he capitulated to meaningless, polite conversation as a silent apology for rejecting her overture. “I don’t like my place. It doesn’t feel right.”

  Or it hadn’t. Not until Reina had been standing in the foyer. Suddenly, the skylights and floor to ceiling windows seemed to brighten. The wood floors seemed to be a richer color. The black leather couches looked softer.

  “There’s something wrong with it. I’m glad you feel it.” She studied the room more carefully, her forehead wrinkled in a cute little frown as her feet sank into his plush carpet and she turned in place. “This place has no passion,” she said. “It’s empty. Cold.” She cocked her head. “You need passion. A fire in the soul.”

  He snorted as he grabbed a beer from the mini-fridge one of the boys had set up in his living room. Water wasn’t cutting it. “Screw that. I got enough shit in my soul already.”

  “Not that kind of passion,” Reina said thoughtfully. “Positive, energizing passion. Love.”

  Jarvis paused at her words. Thought about it. Was that what he needed? It actually sounded appealing… oh, who was he kidding? “That’s not my avenue.”

  “It is.” She ignored him and walked over to the painting he’d hung over the couch. It was a stark black and white modern art painting of who knew what. Just lines and shit. “This is how you see yourself.”

  Jarvis took a swig of the beer, surprised by how much he liked seeing her leaning on his couch. A woman in his home. Felt right. Made his place feel better. “It’s a painting.”

  “No, it’s you.” She trailed her finger over a thick, jagged black line, and Jarvis could almost feel his skin prickle as he imagined that same finger running down his arm. “Did you pick this out?”

  He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “I just picked it randomly.”

  “No.” She trailed her finger down another black line. “See all that black? And the white? That’s you. The black is your hate. The white is your soul. Fighting each other. Struggling for supremacy. Who wins? This painting is about conflict.”

  Jarvis frowned at the decor. The jumble of black and white lines were jagged and sharp. Bold. Angry. White lines dominating black ones. Black ones cutting off white ones. Suddenly, he saw it as she did. A battle. Good versus evil. Toughness and conflict. Nothing at ease. Nothing peaceful. “It’s just a painting.” But even as he said it, he wanted to take it down. Burn it.

  “Art is never just art. It always means something to those who respond to it.” She grabbed the edges and lifted it down. “This is bad energy. You don’t need it. It has to go.” She tucked it under her arm. “I’ve learned that it helps to put positive energy into my life. Sometimes it’s all that kept me going.”

  Jarvis could have stopped her from interfering in his life. But all he felt was relief when she carried it out onto the patio and set it out of sight. The wall looked empty now. Barren. But better. He realized suddenly that the painting was why he’d never sat on his couch. It had loomed over him, and now it was gone. It was better.

  Reina walked back inside, carrying a large piece of paper. “Nigel was drawing this outside. This is what you need.” She held it up, and he saw it was a drawing of a large green field, populated with pink and yellow flowers. All different shades of pinks and yellows.

  He frowned, not liking how it reminded him of the forced decor in the Den. “I’m not a flower guy.”

  She ignored him and propped the painting on the back of the couch. “This feels better,” she said. “I couldn’t handle that other one. This reminds me of the backyard of our house growing up. I used to play out there with my sisters. We used to try to catch butterflies.” She held up her hand to him. “Come feel this art,” she said. “Come feel the difference.”

  “We have to go—”

  “For one minute,” she said. “This is important. Come here.”

  Grumbling, but drawn by a need to accept any excuse to touch her, Jarvis walked up beside her and let her take his hand. She gestured to the painting. “Can you see us? Playing there? Laughing?”

  “No—” Jarvis had a sudden vision of Reina cavorting through the fields with butterflies. Lighthearted and free, before life had dealt her a tough hand. “Shit. I can.”

  “What else do you see? For yourself?”

  He frowned and studied the art. “It’s just—” Then he stopped. He suddenly remembered the field that he and Cameron used to go to, when Cameron would show him how the butterflies liked to dance. “I would stand completely still, and my brother would shoot me with one of his arrows. After he did it, the butterflies would land on me.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yeah. It only lasted for a few minutes, but I still remember how their little feet felt. So light, almost like a breeze.” He pointed to a yellow flower. “That’s what color they were. Yellow.” He hadn’t thought of that in centuries. “The butterflies landing on me made me feel like I wasn’t a monster,” he said.

  Reina squeezed his hand. “You aren’t.”

  He didn’t feel like arguing. Not this time. He just kept looking at the painting and remembering that day. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  She raised her brows. “For getting rid of that other painting?”

  “For making me remember the butterflies.”

  She smiled and touched his face. “Good memories are worth keeping.”

  He set his hand over hers and tried to imprint her tender smile into his mind. “Yes, they are.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. “You have given those back to me. My old ones, and you’ve given me new ones.”

  She smiled. “And you’ve given me good memories as well. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long.” He hugged her then, just wanting to hold her while he thought about butterflies. Butterflies. Hah. The boys would laugh. But it didn’t matter. Reina was taking him places that just felt good. He took her hands and squeezed lightly, searching for the words to say, to explain how she made him feel. He didn’t know where to start, but he needed to try.

  Chapter 19

  Jarvis hesitated at Reina’s expectant stare. She wa
s beautiful. How could his words do justice? “Reina—” He stopped. Unsure what to say.

  She touched his face, her smile kind and welcoming. “Tell me, Jarvis. It’s okay.”

  He nodded, searching for the right words. “Reina—”

  “Jarvis!” Nigel’s shout interrupted him. “Get in here!”

  Jarvis swore at the reminder of what they were facing. Shit. He squeezed Reina’s hand regretfully. “We gotta go.”

  She smiled with resignation, and she held onto his hand. “I know we do.”

  Together, they headed down the hall and into the sick room. It felt different walking in with Reina by his side. It felt less dark, less dire, less hopeless, which was exactly what he needed. She’d been right to take that moment for them. To bring them both into a better place. He could feel that he was further from detonation than he had been. Never had he valued inner peace before, but he understood its power now.

  Jarvis kept holding her hand as he walked up to the bed Rocco was resting on. The youth was the color of the all organic, humanitarian-endorsed, angel-blessed cream that Nigel poured into his coffee every morning. Rocco’s T-shirt was hanging off him, as if he’d lost more than a couple handfuls of muscle since he’d tossed living to the wind. He was giving off no energy, as if his soul had already checked out.

  Jarvis had seen men in this state plenty of times when he’d been in the Den, and he knew where it would end. With a visit from one of Death’s Guides. Why had he bothered to grab the kid anyway? He had enough trouble keeping alive those who wanted to live to waste time on those who had already packed it in.

  But he knew why he’d snagged the kid. It was because Reina had wanted him to do it, and she’d gotten in his head the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could make a positive difference for someone instead of being responsible for death and mayhem. “You think you can heal this kid?”

  “I don’t know.” Nigel was sitting beside him, frowning as he rested his hands above the kid’s heart. “He’s in bad shape.”