The main reason he holds the top position on my extremely short friends with benefits list is he’s learned how not to think about much of anything when we have sex. I would say this is quite the accomplishment on his part, but the reality is, during the act itself, most men don’t think about much other than how being inside you feels.
With that being said, I could use almost any man for carnal purposes, but Blake fits me like a well loved sweater. And I don’t have to worry about a guy who doesn’t get lost in the sex and starts thinking on other topics. It can, and does, happen, and is downright unpleasant. Who wants to hear how you aren’t pleasing your partner? Or worse, how he’s some sort of sick bastard and dwells upon disgusting future plans for you. Talk about a mood killer. At least Blake tries to concentrate on the task at hand.
And it keeps me on the mostly straight and narrow road of being good.
Before Blake took the top position on my FWB list, experiencing carnal pleasures presented difficulties. The only way I can touch another without getting into their thoughts and feelings is to be falling down drunk or stoned out of my head. I’m sorry to say I used to do both quite a lot and not always for sex. Coping mechanism and all that.
Then I met Blake. I could fall for him—and sometimes I swear I have—but it’s not worth it. He expects his girlfriends to behave a certain way, to look and act toward the expectations of his family.
Blonde, rich and hiding behind the door when the good Lord passed out brains.
Brunette, in debt and semi-intelligent don’t qualify. And even if they did, his mother doesn’t like me. Thinks I’m white trash. Thinks I’m not good enough for her highfalutin’ lawyer son.
She’s right.
But damn it, I can’t stay away from him. Don’t want to even try. And despite how his momma raised him, or maybe because of it, he prefers hanging out with me. A secret addiction is a dangerous thing to hide. Even more so for him. Rich lawyers steeped in family money fall further than in-debt nurses. Harder too.
But I need him to save me from this emotional free-fall, to kiss me and make it all go away, if only for a few minutes. Maybe that makes me a bad person, to only think of myself, to not think of the position I’m putting him in.
If he doesn’t want to come over, he won’t. In which case, I need a contingency plan.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The wall shakes and my eyes squeeze shut.
Blake or beer are the only ways I’m getting through this evening.
I hit speed dial on my cell and wait as the call goes through.
“‘Lo?”
Like a shot of valium, his voice relaxes me, tension bleeding from my shoulders as I drift in a sea of calm. I love Blake’s voice. Smooth and rich, like chocolate cake with ganache icing. Which is probably why he makes such a good lawyer, people love hearing him talk.
“Hey. Whatcha doing?”
“Gin! I’m just sitting here watching your hospital on the news. Were you there?”
“Unfortunately.” The calm sea turns choppy as memories start replaying. I close my eyes on a long blink. “You wanna come over?”
“You know I’m dating Jordan.”
“Yeah. Sorry.” I suck in a breath. I need him tonight. Not his voice on the phone. Him. “I’m just...just a bit strung out over today. You know?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Jordan’s out with her friends. Dinner. Getting high at some club. And to think, Mom prefers her over you.”
“Don’t get me started. You coming over?” My breath hitches as I wait for his answer. Say yes, say yes, say yes.
A pause. An audible swallow. “Yeah.” I hear the smile in his words. “Wait. Is T there?”
“Yeah. Why?” But I know why. It’s a redundant question. Perhaps his answer is not what I’m thinking. It could happen.
“It’s not going to be the same as last time, right?”
I close my eyes and grimace. He apparently remembers things better forgotten. “Nah. Jackie’s over. You remember her? Bleach-blonde hair—”
“Big tits?”
“Yep. That’s her. He’s in with her.”
“Okay. I’ll be over. Whatcha got to eat?”
“Pick up a pizza, why don’t you?”
“See you in thirty.”
Cha-ching.
Chapter 4
Twenty minutes later the doorbell rings. Blake’s early. Odd that, but why complain? Pizza and sex coming up. I place my glass on the coffee table, straighten my tank top, and pull my short shorts and thong out of my crack. Who knew pulling my undies out of my crack in elementary school every day would prepare me for the adult version of pulling the thong out of hiding. Things women do to look sexy.
I check out my appearance in the mirror behind the door, smoothing down a fly-away strand. Good enough for a romp in the sheets. Swinging the door open is the work of a moment and it dawns on me I should’ve looked through the peephole first.
The evil man-thing stands on my porch, his lips turning in a menacing smile of death. I don’t need to touch him to know he wants me dead. Muscles freeze, trapping my breath in my lungs. Like a rabbit in view of a wolf, I’m immobilized, waiting for death’s blow. Time slows, his gaze locks on mine, trapping me in place.
Move, move, move! My mind screams as the man’s fingers twitch.
But the spike of adrenaline explodes into my limbs too late to stop the backhand blow slamming across my jaw.
I superman it halfway across the living room. Land on the hardwood floor in a thud of pain-ridden limbs. My jaw morphs into a screaming ball of nerves. My head no sooner hits the floor than I hear the bracelet scream, a high-pitched wail quivering through my skin like vibrations from a tuning fork. The bracelet tightens around my wrist, cutting off the circulation, and then it loosens with a pop at the same time I hear the door click closed.
Ohgodohgodohgod, I’m going to die. I don’t want to die. No, no, no, no, no. Pain and terror hold me crumpled on the floor as my mind crawls backward in time.
But I’m no longer a child, fearful of fists and words, cowering on the ground.
I’m a fighter.
My head spins, but I refuse to lie on the floor waiting to be killed, so I attempt to stand. Evil Guy laughs as I ass-plant it. Laughs as a moan escapes my lips. He takes a step toward me, right arm drawn back for a hit. His fist hurls toward my face, but I manage to block it with my left arm. My right arm, the one with the bracelet, shoves forward, slamming into his chest.
His black eyes widen, mouth open in surprise, his hands fluttering to his chest before dropping. I stare at my hand, stare hard, for I’m as surprised as Evil Guy. The bracelet had become a sword, a long, thin spike of metal extending from the silver links, straight into Evil Guy’s heart.
A sword?
Definitely a sword. The flat of the blade rests against the back of my hand, cool metal heating from the warmth of my skin. Small silver links circle around my palm, lending stability to the two-foot long sword.
I’m not sure which scares me more, Evil Guy paying me a visit or the fact the bracelet performed a morphing trick.
Life seeps out of Evil Guy’s eyes as I watch, still seated on the floor, and he sags forward, held upright by the sword. A gray mist crawls out of the sword wound, sizzling when it touches the sword blade, the metal answering with a cry like a vengeful Valkryie. The mist coalescences into a ball, which hovers above the sword as if watching me, as if taking the measure of my soul. Shudders rack my body, but I hold the sword steady and snarl at the ball of mist. I get the impression the thing laughs before it flies toward the door.
What the holy fuck? Where’s a priest when I need one?
Heavy footsteps pound on wood, vibrations echoing into my skin. I stare at Evil Guy, who is standing only because he remains impaled on the sword-formerly-known-as-my-bracelet.
“Get down, Gin!” T hollers and I move fast, rolling back onto the floor, the sword vanishing at the same time the shotgun roars.
Bang! My
hearing disappears, lost in the blast of T’s shotgun. Evil Guy flies backward, slamming into the door, the gunshot wound obliterating the stab mark left by the sword.
Well, that was one way to get rid of evidence.
“Take that, fucker!” T pumps his arm in the air, one knee rising in a celebratory semi-dance. He’s dressed in a pair of red-striped boxers riding low on his hips and a shotgun slung over his shoulder. He takes one peek at my face and snarls. “Fucking bastard.” Swinging the shotgun off his shoulder, he levels it at Evil Guy. Bang!
I slam my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t help, they continue to ring. The door now contains a hole, through which the gray mist escapes, and T is aiming at Evil Guy’s face. “T he’s dead!” I spit out a mouthful of blood and run my tongue over my teeth. All present and accounted for. Thank god.
“Bloody fucking bastard. He fucked up your face.” He kneels beside me, hand hovering over the skin of my face, eyes wide with a frantic energy.
“T, call 911.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Call the damn police.”
“Going, going. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” He grabs the phone yelling over his shoulder as he punches in the numbers. “Jackie, it’s all okay now! Um, yes, I’d like to report a shooting. Uh-huh. I shot the bastard that broke into our house and fucked up my sister’s face. You need to send the paramedics over now. And the police. Don’t forget about them.”
I listen to him giving our address, but my gaze is on the bracelet. Which is once again a bracelet. Did I imagine the sword? Maybe I hallucinated the entire thing. Bracelets did not shapeshift into swords. No way.
And yet, I know what I saw.
Welcome to the Twilight Zone, Gin.
T returns to the living room, ice pack in hand, and places it against my jaw. I wince and bite back a whimper. “Want me to shoot him again?”
“Once did the job. How am I supposed to clean up the mess?”
He looks at the body, meets my gaze and shrugs. “Don’t they have people who clean messes?”
“Probably. Thank you.” I take over holding the ice pack, blinking back tears.
“Nobody messes with my sister.”
“Oh my god!” Jackie screeches as she walks into the living room. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”
It looks pretty obvious to me, but I guess when you’re as intelligence challenged as the double D wonder, it might be hard to understand.
“The bad guy—” I gesture to the body “—is now dead.”
“Well, duh. What do you think I am? Stupid?”
I refuse to answer her question. She doesn’t really want to know my opinion on the matter. Instead I focus on T’s sudden white-knuckled grasp on my forearm. Beads of sweat ring his forehead, run down his cheeks, drip onto my skin.
What? I ask.
Ghost. Bad one.
I look around the room, breath hitching as my aching head turns, trying to find the ghost as sirens sound in the distance. After seeing shadow figures at the hospital, I wonder if wearing the bracelet gives me T’s gift of seeing the spirit world.
Apparently, the vision at the hospital was a fluke. The only thing out of place in the living room is the dead evil guy.
I don’t see it.
By the door. He jerks his head in that direction.
The thought of Evil Guy haunting my house transforms my spinal fluid into a staff of ice.
Emergency responder sirens wail as vehicles screech to a halt outside the house. Reflections of whirling blue lights chase around the walls of the room. T’s hand shakes, his grip threatening to cut off the circulation in my lower arm.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jackie sashays over, placing a hand on T’s shoulder, her gaze turned away from Dead Guy to focus on the kitchen.
Car doors slam shut and T’s grip loosens.
It’s gone.
Thank god. Evil Dead Guy wrecked enough havoc when alive. Being haunted by his ghost is not my idea of a fun time.
Bam, bam, bam! The pounding on the door grows stronger with each strike. “Police!”
“In here! Come in!” T yells.
“We’re coming in!” Police shove open the door, and Evil Guy flops to the side from the force. A gun comes through first, followed by a navy-blue clad officer, who takes one look at the body and gestures to others behind him. Two cops search the house, securing the premises, before hollering to the crew milling around outside. Within seconds my living room resembles an episode of Law and Order minus the TV cameras.
Paramedics and firefighters follow the cops and since my blood is escaping the confines of my skin and trickling out onto my lip, they snap on gloves to avoid infections. Lucky me. No extra thoughts or emotions. Good thing too, as enough thoughts run through my mind to fill a library.
Ouch! Their gloves might prevent unwanted thoughts from intruding, but they do nothing to make the exam less painful. I clutch T’s hand and squeeze for all I’m worth, splitting my attention between the paramedics’ exam and T telling a detective his side of the events.
The paramedics shine a light in my eyes, state they don’t think I have a concussion, but should get checked out at a hospital to verify. I decline. You don’t spend as many years as I have in the ER without learning a thing or two about injuries.
My jaw aches, but my teeth remain in place. Nothing feels broken, no concussion, only what would eventually become a huge nasty bruise crossing my jaw. Not pretty, but not life-threatening either.
Convincing the paramedics of that takes some doing, but I manage, once a release form is signed.
Besides, I know enough to realize they sit outside for a while in case the idiot patient is rendered unconscious due to their injuries. Where upon they rush in and take said idiot to the hospital. A safety net of sorts, in case I guess wrong about my injuries.
But I’m never wrong. Hardy-har-har.
“Ma’am.” The next thing I know, a stout man in a faded brown sports jacket, no tie, stands beside me, his hard brown eyes a contradiction to his soft voice. “I’m Detective Williams, and I need to ask you some questions.” The detective pulls out a notebook and waits, his eyes focusing on me like I’m the candy prize and he’s the winner.
I sit up. Not smart. The room spins, and I stick my head between my legs, sucking down deep breaths like I’ve told countless patients to do. Note to self, be more sympathetic next time a patient threatens a fainting episode.
T rubs my back in little circular motions, and the spinning sensation disappears, replaced by a lot of oh-my-god-the-pain. I want to whimper, to crawl into my bed and hibernate, to forget about walking evil and bracelets that turn into swords. Instead, I have to tell the good detective about what happened without mentioning such obvious things like the sword coming out of the bracelet and how said sword stabbed Evil Dead Guy thereby releasing floating gray mist.
Geesh, I’m not going crazy, I’ve already arrived.
Might as well get the interview over with so I can get on with the whimpering, moaning, and pain-pill popping part of my evening. Taking a breath, I blow it out slowly through my nose and raise my head. My jaw throbs, but at least the detective remains motionless.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me in detail what happened.”
I start with the doorbell ringing, end with T’s shooting spree and leave out the reason for my skimpy clothing choice.
“Why did you open the door to this fellow?”
“I thought he was my friend. I mean, my friend is supposed to come over so I didn’t bother to look when the bell rang.”
“Have you ever seen him before?”
“Yes, sir. I ran into him today at the hospital. He’s the one that shot Will, I mean Dr. Wunderliech.”
The detective’s eyes pop wide. “Really? The same doctor whose shooting is all over the news?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re saying this is the man who shot the doctor?”
“Yes, sir. I r
an into him at the hospital as he left Will’s room. Guess he decided to kill me since I’m the witness. Good thing my brother was home or else I’d be dead now.” Chills dash across my limbs and I wrap my arms around my legs, putting my head on top of my knees, trying to get them to stop. Almost dead. The realization sends a shock of adrenaline through my veins, starting a trembling deep within, as if my innards shake with a cold fear.
“Would you hold on a minute?”
“Sure.” What else am I going to do? Run a marathon?
He grabs his cell, walks into the kitchen, and starts talking. Only bits and pieces of his conversation drift to me, and I don’t pay much attention, focusing instead on the pain in my jaw.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been hit this hard, and it’s difficult to process. My whole body feels like one aching lump of throbbing pain. And I’ve only been hit in the jaw.
Although I suppose landing on hardwood floors after attempting a flight might tend to make a body ache.
“Ma’am.” The detective has returned and squats beside me. “I had my sergeant call the Dallas PD about this guy. The detective on the Wunderliech case wanted to speak with you before you left the hospital, so he’s coming over now.”
“Huh?” I stare at the man, convinced my aching jaw makes me deaf. “What do you mean talk to the detective? I talked to Detective Smythe at the hospital before I left.”
“I don’t know a Detective Smythe. Maybe he’s new. Peterstown and Dallas departments talk, but I don’t know everyone there.”
“Even if he were new, wouldn’t he have mentioned to someone that he interviewed me?” If you could call it an interview. More like a questioning about my bracelet instead of asking what I knew about Will’s shooting.
“Hmm. Hold on.” With a grunt, he stands up straight, presses a button on his phone, and sticks it next to his ear. “Yeah, George. The nurse here says she spoke to a Detective Smythe at the hospital. Would you call Dallas PD again and tell them that...Yeah, I’ll wait.” His fingers drum a tune against his slacks as he stares at the photos hanging on my wall. After a long pause he snaps to attention and presses the phone closer to his ear. “Uh-huh. Really? You sure? Okay, then. We’ll wait here.” He presses a button and slips the phone back into his pocket. Grabbing hold of the pants material above his knees, he lets out a grunt and squats by my side.
Demon Lore Page 4