The fuel machine beeped at her as if trying to get her attention and Jacquelyn fumbled with the buttons for a second before she found the correct key to authorize the pump. Thankfully the station wasn’t too busy. She’d only filled in for Libby once or twice and didn’t have the experience to do more than push a button or two. She watched the RV from the window for a minute but got bored after the first five gallons and turned her attention back to Cosmo.
So engrossed by the quiz at the end of the article, Jacquelyn wasn’t even sure how long the guy had been standing at the counter before clearing his throat to get her attention. When she finally looked up from the glossy color pages, the man standing before her set his fountain drink down with unnecessary force. Damn, he looked like he was going to be sick.
“Sorry.” The word rushed out too fast as if she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. Well, technically, she guessed she had. But seriously, what would Libby do if she found Jacquelyn slacking at her non-job? Take away her birthday? “I was sort of zoned out there for a minute. I didn’t even hear you walk in. Pump five, right?”
The man didn’t answer but stared at her with a concerned expression, his brow furrowed, full lips parted, and Jacquelyn’s breath left her chest in a hasty rush as if running for cover. His power was so immense it knocked the air right out of her. Ho-ly shit. A Bearer. Magical energy emanated from him like a Fourth of July sparkler, washing over her senses in a way that made her skin warm and tingly.
“Number five?” he asked after the silence became uncomfortable.
Did he know what he was? If he had, he would have gone to see Trish—the territory’s head honcho. But Jacquelyn hadn’t heard of any Bearers passing through. “That’s your RV, right? One hundred and eighty-five dollars.” His eyes were the color of old oiled leather, accenting his darker olive skin. He brushed a hand over the quarter-inch of stubble that shadowed his shaved head. A tough guy. Or at least, tough looking.
Impulsively, he reached out for Jacquelyn’s cheek and ran his fingers in a gentle caress along the butterfly bandage before she could pull away. A delicious heat, followed by a tingling sensation crawled over and under her skin, the intrusion too intimate for her to feel comfortable. She knew the invasive feeling of a Bearer’s power all too well. “Are you all right?” he asked, his eyes lingering on her jaw. “I was worried.”
Oh yeah. He was a Bearer all right. The touch confirmed it. She could already feel the effect of his magic flowing through the bandage into the cut, her skin becoming tighter by the second. He’d healed her and probably didn’t even realize it.
“You were worried?” Jacquelyn asked in a soft but facetious tone. This Bearer was obviously a few eggs short of a dozen. He was worried about her? She’d never seen him before in her life. “Do I know you…?”
“Micah,” he murmured, his gaze trained on her face.
“Do I know you, Micah?”
“No. I guess you don’t.”
A rogue Bearer could be trouble, and a crazy one, disastrous. Jacquelyn had a full enough plate already. “Are you passing through, Micah?” she asked, as she indicated his RV in an effort to coax a little info out of him. Like what he was doing here for starters.
“I don’t know,” he answered as though distracted. “Maybe I’ll stick around for a while.”
With his eyes still locked on her face, Micah handed over several folded bills. Jesus, he looked at her like he’d seen a ghost. Jacquelyn’s brain raced, as she tallied the odds of an unrealized Bearer—meaning that he’d yet to recognize and identify his abilities— wandering into her territory as she counted out the necessary change, filling his hovering and empty hand.
“Fourteen dollars and twenty-two cents change.”
“Thanks,” Micah answered as if waking from a dream. He stared down at his hand and stuffed the bills in his pocket. “Have a nice day—” he paused to look at the coffee shop name tag still pinned to her chest “—Jax.”
“Right back at ya—Micah,” she said, perplexed.
Without even taking his drink with him, she watched the disoriented Bearer wander out the door to the RV. Through the window she observed him, just sitting in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead. He was still frozen in time when Libby walked through the door.
“What’s up with the hottie in the motor home?” she asked, shooing Jacquelyn out from behind the counter. “He looks lost.”
“He is.” Jacquelyn’s eyes remained focused on the gas pumps and the RV outside. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Well, hot piece of ass or not, he better get the hell out of here,” Libby said. “He’s blocking the pumps.”
“Libby, can I borrow your car?” Jacquelyn asked, still looking out the window.
“Let me think about that for a second,” Libby replied. “No.”
“Come on, Libs. Please? I’ll bring it back in an hour or so.”
“I have a novel idea. Why don’t you get your car fixed?” Jacquelyn turned around and Libby’s stern expression looked more like a mother’s than a friend’s. “Evan told you he’d work on it.”
“I can’t afford it,” she muttered, still staring out the window at the RV and Micah. “If you don’t let me use your car, I’ll have to track Pete down and beg him for a ride. You wouldn’t do that to your best friend, would you?”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Jacquelyn stared at Libby with mock hurt. Deep down, she suspected that Libs was a masochist and would totally get off on seeing her endure the humiliation of swallowing her pride to ask Pete for a ride. Libby had definitely missed her calling. The girl loved her drama, she should have been a producer for a Real Housewives series. The RV started up and slowly pulled out onto West Lake Street, disappearing around the corner.
Jacquelyn’s pouty face broke her resolve. Score one for her! “Bring it right back.” Libby tossed her the keys. “And you will gas it up when you get back.”
“Promise.” She headed for the door. “Thanks Libby!”
“If you’re going after the piece of ass,” Libby shouted as she headed toward the door, “I want details!”
Another loud clang of tools from the shop made Jacquelyn wonder if Evan found that one funny.
The drive to Trish Whitney’s ranch had never felt longer. Ten miles might as well have been ten thousand. The arrival of an unrealized Bearer couldn’t be a coincidence. Not with all of the increased supernatural activity lately. Jacquelyn touched her fingers to her cheek. Peeling back the bandage, she winced as it tugged her skin. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed what she already knew: Micah had healed her with his touch.
As the area’s head honcho, Trish was not only a top ranking member of the Sentry, but one of the most powerful Bearers she’d ever met. Nothing got past Trish, and Jacquelyn wondered if she didn’t already know there was an unrealized Bearer in the area. The question was: What did this Micah’s appearance mean? And how would Trish deal with it? And why did Jacquelyn feel so anxious about it?
She sped out of town and punched the accelerator, pushing Libby’s old Tahoe faster down the highway out of McCall. With a total disregard for safety, not to mention traffic laws, she wove through the slower cars, passing a school bus and two dump trucks. The winding path of the highway down Goose Creek Canyon posed a problem and the slow moving semi in front of her could not be persuaded to accelerate past twenty. Not even with Jacquelyn’s persistent tailgating and shouts of “Get your slow ass in gear!” At the mouth of the canyon, just before New Meadows, she hit the gas and left the semi in her wake. Turning a hard left past the Whitney Ranch signpost, she barreled down the dirt road toward Trish’s house.
Trish waited on the front porch, her silver-gray hair billowing out behind her in the breeze. The worry in her gray-blue eyes was enough to cause a swirl of butterflies in Jacquelyn’s stomach. She hit the brakes and the Tahoe slid to a halt at the front steps. The engine hadn’t even wound down by the time she jumped out the door,
taking the porch steps two at a time.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Trish took Jacquelyn’s face in her soft, aged hands. “I felt you coming from miles away.”
“This is what’s wrong.” She presented her cheek for Trish’s inspection.
“I see,” Trish said in the calm but facetious way that always set Jacquelyn’s blood to boiling.
“Do you?” she asked, infuriated. “An unrealized Bearer did this.”
A low whistle escaped from Trish’s puckered lips. “A powerful one too, I’d wager.”
Jacquelyn pulled away and began to pace. “This isn’t right, Trish. This isn’t supposed to happen.”
How could Trish treat the situation so lightly? She didn’t even seem surprised, though it was unheard of for an unrealized Bearer to use such a strong aspect of his gift. He had no clue what his touch had done to her. What was he doing here? Did the Sentry know about him? And, oh, god, Finn was going to blow a gasket over this. He was as territorial as any alpha wolf. Trish had to know that. Didn’t anyone have a sense of urgency anymore?
“Does this worry you?”
Jacquelyn thought she’d drop dead right there on the old woman’s porch. Does this worry me? “You’re goddamned right it worries me,” she answered between bouts of pacing. “What the hell does it mean?”
Trish smiled. The expression bore years of wisdom and then some. And not a small amount of amusement, too. “I think you have a tendency to blow things out of proportion, dear. Did it ever occur to you that Fate knows better than you?”
“No,” she answered with conviction. No one knew better than her.
“Come in the house.” Trish wrapped an arm around Jacquelyn’s shoulder. “I’ll make some tea.”
“What about Finn?” she asked, pulling open the screen door.
“What about him?” Trish replied, but Jacquelyn knew she wasn’t looking for a response.
Chapter 6
THE GOLDEN HILLS RV Park was the only one in town still open this late in the fall. Micah picked the first slot past the entrance and set the motor home up for an extended stay, happily paying the weekly space rent of one hundred and sixty dollars up front. One week. Not a long term commitment. He could blow out of town in seven days if he wanted. Sooner, if he didn’t mind losing a few non-refundable dollars. It was plenty of time to scope the place out, learn a little more about this Jax, and maybe gain a little insight as to why he’d felt such a strong connection with her when his fingertips made contact with her skin. If it all got to be more than he could handle, he’d leave.
Once he was settled, he searched every corner of the motorhome until he found the discarded sketch. Shaking hands smoothed out the rumpled paper. The picture he’d drawn from a dream. Though he’d captured her well, he hadn’t done justice to her striking features up close and in person.
Fathomless and intelligent, her large, pale green eyes mesmerized. And the gray shading of his pencil could never imitate the soft caramel color of her skin. Micah touched the drawn image of the cut on her cheek and wondered at the spark of energy he felt when he ran his finger along the bandage holding her skin together.
He’d prayed she wasn’t real. Hoped his dream had been merely that. His visions intermingled with reality before, though he’d never felt a connection as strong as the one he felt when he touched her. As though the spark of energy fused them together somehow. How could that be? His life was crazy enough, Micah didn’t know if he could handle another layer of insanity. Reason told him to get his money back, get on the highway and put this town behind him before it was too late. But some hidden instinct, something deep inside of him, warred with that reason, prompting him to stay right where he was. And he had a feeling that the woman at the gas station was the answer to every question about himself he’d ever had. How could he possibly turn his back on that? It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him. Because he planned on making sure she got to know him—soon.
As Micah weighed his options over and again, daylight dwindled and faded to dusk. He hadn’t eaten since noon, but he wasn’t hungry. Every thought drifted to her, and he had plenty to spare. Jax. What a strange name. He stretched out on the bed, arms folded behind his head and stared up at the ceiling as the sky became increasingly dark. Despite his situation, the usual anxiety that plagued him was absent. The various prescription bottles sat untouched in the bedside drawer. Instead of fending off his inexorable dreams, he welcomed them. Lying in bed, his eyes closed, silently hoping for the visions he’d run from. Maybe he’d see her face again. Maybe if he dreamed of her, she’d dream of him, too. But the reality of her existence concerned him. She’d been in danger, though how a teenage assailant could be so threatening he didn’t know. Especially one who looked like she was late for a night out at a trashy nightclub. After meeting her in person, he knew that this Jax wasn’t merely the terrified woman he’d dreamt of. Somehow, he didn’t doubt she could take care of herself. There was more to her than his dreams had let on. As the possibilities flooded his mind, Micah relaxed into oblivion with cautious optimism for the first time in his life.
Blood pulsed through the veins in Micah’s temples and pounded a steady cadence in his ears. He sat bolt upright in bed, massaging his sternum as he tried to take a few deep, steady breaths. His heart hammered against his ribcage and it was a wonder the damned thing hadn’t broken free by now. Adrenaline surged through his body, his stomach cramping from the anxiety that hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. The desire to jump right out of his skin and run like hell was so intense his legs shook. Too bad there was no running from what held him in the grip of fear. With an unsteady hand, Micah reached for the drawer and retrieved the bottle of pills; nothing was worth what he’d just endured.
He popped two Ativan under his tongue and lay back, relaxing as the benzo took effect. By slow degrees, his heart rate slowed and his hands no longer shook. The pounding in his head subsided, albeit very little, but at least it didn’t feel like someone was using his noggin for batting practice anymore. One deep breath, and another filled his lungs and his shoulders relaxed, his arms no longer poised and ready to fight an invisible foe. The vision he’d hoped for hadn’t come to him in his sleep. Not even a glimpse of the woman he wanted to see. Instead he’d been gifted with a dream constructed of pure evil.
The details were muddled, hazy in his memory…or maybe the Ativan just made it seem that way. He shook his head as if to clear the fog. Nothing distinct had stuck with him as far as images went. But the raw emotion sat in his gut like a heated lump of heavy metal. A ripple of anxiety threatened, swept away by the drug slowly sapping him of troubled feelings.
For some reason, Micah couldn’t stop thinking of the number three. Like floating beacons of balloon animation, the number flashed over and over in his consciousness. Wonderful. Obsessing over a number was new, as far as the dreams went, as well as the intensity of the emotions. Usually, his dreams flashed by like commercials. Bits and pieces of images and feelings edited together like movie trailers to maximize his interest and viewing enjoyment. Never had he felt anything so powerful. Until now.
With the Ativan in his system, he could examine the emotions flooding his system with a certain level of detachment, as though written on scraps of paper that he could spread out before him. Rage. Jealousy. Desire. Need. Hate. Flashes of bright color—red. He felt neglected, abused, underappreciated. The world had kicked him and kicked him hard and he wasn’t going to just sit there and take it anymore. Finally the people that had more than him were going to pay. He wanted something, wanted it bad. And the fact that he couldn’t have it, for whatever reason, caused the feelings even the Ativan had a hard time squashing.
His stomach churned and he popped a third pill under his tongue. He couldn’t stand feeling this way for another second. Fuck, the anxiety was choking him. Taking a deep, easy breath, peace descended by slow degrees to sweep him up in gentle arms. The false comfort of the drugs wrapped him up, held him tight, and he slept.
Micah rolled over on his side with a groan. He felt only a little better than death warmed over. His throat and tongue were too dry, like they’d been covered with a layer of velvet. What a shitty way to start the day.
He noticed, as he stretched and rolled his tongue around his mouth, a tenderness in his face. After stumbling a few paces to the tiny bathroom mirror, Micah realized why. A bruise had bloomed high on his left cheekbone. Almost gone, but it looked like someone had popped him in the face. And stranger yet, it was in the exact same spot as the gash he’d touched on Jax’s cheek the previous day.
What the hell…? Micah examined the bruise, the skin still a bit swollen and tender to the touch. He couldn’t recall falling, bumping into anything…had he rolled out of bed and not even realized it? No. The only explanation was the least logical one, and wasn’t that a crazy fucking thing to consider. When he traced his fingers along the butterflied gash on her cheek he’d felt…something. And now here he was, bruised as though he’d picked the injury right off her face and planted it on his own. Wow. Like the weirdness factor wasn’t already cranked up too high, this just added a new dimension to the crazy shit storm he called life. Hit the road while you can, reason shouted. No. Micah had felt alone his entire life. Floating and disconnected from everyone around him. But a simple touch with a complete stranger left him feeling anchored. He couldn’t run from that. Not until he got some answers.
Micah stepped under the spray of the shower and let the hot water sluice down his body, relaxing the tension in his muscles and clearing some of the fog from his drug-muddled brain. He stayed in the shower until he exhausted the RV’s small water heater, toweled off, and threw on some clean jeans and a t-shirt. After that, a strong pot of coffee brought him officially into the land of the living. As he sat at the table, watching the morning news on the flat screen hanging on the wall above the driver’s seat, Micah absently fiddled with the items in front of him. Nothing out of the ordinary: toothpicks, packets of sugar, and a few condiment containers he hadn’t put away from dinner the night before. When the station broke for commercial, he looked down at his handiwork and spilled his coffee in the process. In neatly grouped piles were items of three. Three toothpicks lined up like soldiers, sugar packets piled up in threes. The salt and pepper standing on either side of the steak sauce, in a grouping of three.
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