“You okay?” Scott asked, and she opened her eyes and turned her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. He stared at her, a curious look on his face.
“What makes you think I’m not okay?” she asked.
“The way you woke up,” he said. “The look on your face. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a nightmare.”
“I don’t have nightmares,” she muttered.
“Everybody has nightmares,” he refuted. “So don’t give me that crap. I don’t usually fall for it.”
Riley didn’t say anything right away. She shifted her eyes back to the ceiling, staring at the flat white expanse above the bed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Scott asked.
“Not really,” she said. “I have this standing policy that I never talk about nightmares in case they come true.”
Scott made a soft noise that she couldn’t identify. “That’s probably a good policy. I mean, I told my psychologist about my last nightmare. Now I’m going to be paranoid that a horse-sized spider is silently stalking me.”
Riley laughed softly, shaking her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “If a horse-sized spider shows up, I’ll happily shoot it for you.”
“Sounds like you’ve got me covered, then,” he said. There was a soft rustle of the sheet between them, and then his fingers slid against her right palm. She slacked her hand in invitation, and he threaded his fingers between hers, lacing them together. She gave him a small, crooked smile.
“What are we going to do, Scott?” she asked seriously, her tone contradicting the expression on her face. “This shit show seems to be getting worse with every day that passes.” She tightened her grip on his. “What’s all of this leading up to? What am I supposed to do? If Damon is right and I’m one of these Witnesses, what is my job supposed to be? Why am I in the middle of all this?”
Scott shifted onto his side, putting him a few inches closer to her. Riley didn’t mind, and for once, she didn’t try to move away from him. She supposed it was because they’d gotten so comfortable with each other over the time since they’d left the others. She mimicked his movement, turning onto her own side, and he brushed a stray lock of hair off her face. “I don’t know why this is happening to you,” he said quietly. “I can’t claim I understand a bit of it. As the past month has amply demonstrated, we are in way over our training. We were never prepared for any of this. But I’m with you every step of the way,” he promised, “even if it rains fire and brimstone on the way to wherever we’re going.”
Riley felt a surge of emotion in her gut, one that welled up and clogged her throat. She let go of his hand, but only so she could slide closer to him and wrap her arms around him in a tight hug. She heard his breath catch in his throat, and she smiled and said in his ear, “I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“If that’s the case, those other guys need to work on their game,” Scott joked.
She pulled back enough to look him in the face. “What makes you think I let guys play games with me?”
“Good point,” he acknowledged. “I imagine you don’t allow anyone to do anything you don’t want them to do.”
Scott pressed his right hand gently against her side, resting it on the space above her hip, where her waist curved inward. The edge of the splint she’d reinforced his cast with scratched against her skin through her tank top. He was testing her, she realized, seeing if she’d swat him away like she would if he was any other man. Any other time, she might have, too, but something about the cautious, almost vulnerable look in his eyes made her pause, and her heart skipped a beat. She hesitated only a moment longer, mostly in order to shove aside the thought that flitted through her mind—I really shouldn’t do this—and eased closer to him, disengaging her hand from where they’d grasped them between them. She slid her fingers along his jaw, feeling the dark stubble that had sprouted there over the past few days, then leaned toward him. At the same time, granted unspoken permission, he leaned in to meet her, and their mouths collided in a kiss that was just as searing as the first one they’d shared. Scott groaned against her mouth, which sent a slow shiver roiling down her spine, and the hand he’d rested on her waist slid around to her back, dragging her toward him until she was crushed against him.
The electricity between them had reappeared all over again, though Riley wasn’t sure it had ever actually left. The intensity of it heightened when she slid a knee up Scott’s thigh and wrapped her leg around his, trying desperately to wiggle that much closer to him.
Their mouths crushed together again, lips parting and tongues clashing without a moment’s hesitation. Riley felt his hands running all over her, everywhere they could reach, his broken arm gingerly and the other firmly. She smiled against his mouth and pawed at the hem of his shirt, wedging a hand up into it to feel those muscles she’d only ogled before. He caught her hand, stopping her.
“This is probably not a good idea,” he mumbled breathlessly against her mouth.
“Probably not,” she acknowledged. She shifted then, crawling on top of him and straddling his hips. His breath caught, and she felt his hardness against her thigh. Gotcha. “But since when have I ever avoided a bad idea?” she asked, grasping the hem of her tank top and pulling it over her head in one swift, smooth movement.
“Oh hell,” Scott whispered.
Riley leaned down, and their mouths crushed together again, even as they tore at each other’s clothes, stripping them off with franticness they both obviously felt. Once there was skin-to-skin contact, nothing between them, Scott slowed his movements, studying her in the glow from the faint light filtering through the window’s curtains.
“What?” she asked, feeling suddenly, oddly self-conscious as he looked her over.
“You have a lot of scars,” he commented, his fingers dancing lightly over her skin. He touched each and every one of them, tracing them as his hand drifted lower and lower. When his fingers reached their intended destination, Riley let out a low moan, her head falling back and her back arching.
“That’s what happens when you work in this job too much,” she said breathlessly, once she’d managed to get her senses back together enough to respond. “And when you get into a lot of fights.”
“I noticed you have a habit of that,” he murmured, the fingers of his free hand grazing against the freshest set of scars over her ribs. His other hand—the one that wasn’t unoccupied—did something that felt positively delightful, and she moaned again.
“Part of my…charm,” she replied, bracing a hand against Scott’s chest to keep her balance. She felt like she was going to fall right off him, and that was something she most certainly did not want to do. “Scott, for the love of Christ,” she breathed out, “if you don’t replace that hand with something else, I’m going to slap you.”
“I’m almost tempted to test that threat,” Scott replied. Then, smiling, he curled himself to a semi-sitting position and grasped the back of her head, dragging her into a kiss. He looped an arm around her waist, and she suddenly found herself on her back, Scott’s weight pressing down on her.
“Scott,” Riley managed to say, breathlessly, just before he grabbed her hips, lifted them, and slid into her, hard and fast. She groaned in pleasure and delight, her eyes fluttering closed, and tilted her head back into the pillow, surrendering to him with a smile on her face.
The crack and crash of rubble around him brought Damon back to consciousness. A heavy throb in his head made itself known almost immediately, and he groaned. He shifted on the remains of the floor, sucking in a breath as a sharp pain radiated down his right leg. He inhaled some of the dust floating in the air and started coughing. He smelled smoke and a sliver of fresh air; he felt for his jacket sleeve, tugging it down his right arm and folding it so the cuff was inside out. He used it to wipe any dirt or debris from his face before daring to open his eyes.
His house was destroyed; there was no question
about that. Even as he lay there, he could still hear bits and pieces of his house falling, debris settling. He scrubbed at his eyes again and felt around in the remains of the closet he was half buried in, searching among the debris for a weapon or flashlight or something to help him crawl out of the mess he was in. His hand landed on something small and rectangular, and he breathed out a sigh of relief. His cell phone. Thank God. But who was he going to call? Riley and Scott had walked away three weeks ago, and Ashton and Zachariah had run for their lives, fleeing the city. He didn’t dare call Henry or Vanessa; he didn’t want to drag them into potential danger if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, especially not when he had them right where he needed them.
That really only left one person, and it was someone he wasn’t sure he could count on. But he knew his son felt he could count on her, and he knew this woman had nearly died trying to do what was right and defend Ashton from what would have been certain death.
He keyed up his phone’s screen, thankful that the device still worked, and selected Angelique Rousseau from his contacts list.
It took entirely too many rings for her to answer, and in the time he waited, he could hear shouting coming from the street. Obviously, his neighbors had stepped out to inspect the noise; he could hear the woman from next door shouting his name, the tremor of fear in her voice apparent, and he hoped her house hadn’t gotten too damaged in the blast. As the thought of calling out to her crossed his mind, Angelique picked up the line.
“Angelique, it’s Damon Hartley,” he said, barely waiting for her to say anything beyond an accented greeting. “Are you alone?”
“Of course I am,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I need help.”
“What in the world could Damon Hartley need my help with?” Angelique asked, her words not snarky, merely curious.
“I just had a house dropped on me, and I need you to come pick me up.”
“Is that a figurative house?” she asked.
“No, a literal one,” he replied. He shifted and fought back a groan as pain radiated through his leg again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured. The incredulity in her voice was loud and clear.
“I wish I was.” He rattled off his address then hesitated and added, “Don’t come right up to the house. Stop two blocks east. I’ll meet you there. And bring a first aid kit.”
“Are you hurt?” she asked, but he didn’t answer, just hung up his phone and jammed it into his pocket.
He had more important things to do at the moment than answer Angelique’s questions. Like getting himself the hell out of the hole he was jammed in.
Damon remembered the flashlight feature on his smartphone and fumbled for it, activating it and shining it around the space he was in. The closet he’d taken refuge in—steel lined, with a heavy door and shelves with some survival-minded supplies on them—had, for the most part, survived the collapse of his home. The wall directly across from him hadn’t quite survived the destruction, but his space was otherwise intact. His right leg didn’t appear to be in good shape, though. His entire pant leg below the knee was wet with blood. He forced his eyes away from it—there was nothing he could do about it right now—and shined the light around the closet, grabbing a pistol from one of the shelves, loading it, and jamming it into the empty holster on his belt. Then he patted a hand under the edges of the very bottom shelves to his right and smiled when he found what he was looking for: a small key duct-taped to the underside of the shelf. He ripped it free, slid sideways with some effort, and slung the small rug on the closet’s floor aside. There was a lock set flush to the floor, and he jammed the key into it, twisted it almost savagely, and dug his fingernails into the barely discernible crack that appeared. He silently congratulated himself for having the foresight to add this trapdoor to the floor of his tiny safe room then swung the door open and looked into the gap below.
The floor of the space beneath him was dirt, because it was the crawlspace underneath the house itself. He hoped his path to escape was still accessible and not blocked by debris. He listened to his neighbors calling his name, the rustle of rubble as someone climbed on top of the pile, and the wail of sirens cutting through the air as first responders converged on the scene. Then he slid down into the hole, turned the flashlight on his phone off, and pulled the door above him shut.
The crawlspace was dark and dank, but he didn’t dare turn his flashlight back on for fear of drawing attention to his location. Instead, he focused on the section of the house’s foundation block that had a gap large enough for him to fit through, disguised by a healthy bush at the side of the house, crawling toward it as fast as his aching, injured body would allow. He checked to make sure no one was on this side of the house then dragged himself out of the hole, slowly and surely, using the remains of the side of his house to get to his feet.
His leg was sheer agony when he put weight on it, but he ignored it and hobbled in the direction he’d told Angelique to meet him, sticking to the shadows as much as possible so no one could see him, not even his neighbors. As he limped along the backside of one of his neighbors’ houses, he looked up at the sky, noting how it was lightening with the slow approach of dawn. He wanted to be gone before the sun came up. Hopefully, by then, everyone would think he was dead.
He spotted a black SUV parked on the side of the road where he’d told Angelique to wait for him, its engine idling. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and redialed Angelique, and the figure in the driver’s seat answered their phone at the same time her voice said in his ear, “Hello?”
“Pop the trunk,” he ordered. “Don’t get out of your car.” As he watched, the back cargo door unlatched, and he hung up and hobbled to it, raising it enough to crawl inside and pulling it shut behind him. “Drive,” he ordered.
“Where?” Angelique asked, already putting the car into gear.
“Go west,” he said. “We’ll figure out what to do from there.”
Scott stirred awake several hours later, fighting back a yawn as he opened his eyes to a much darker room than he’d fallen asleep in. His body ached, the soreness that was determined to follow the fight with the werewolf finally fully setting in and making itself known, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t live with. Besides, the bed he laid in was rather comfortable, so that made up for part of the soreness.
He stretched, luxuriating in the pull of the muscles in his shoulders, back, and sides and trying to ignore the pain from the scratches and shallow gouges on his shoulders, and he turned his head to see Riley laying alongside him, her bare back to him. She breathed, steadily and slowly and deeply, in a manner that suggested she was still asleep. Her dark hair was tangled and scattered over her pillow. He rolled onto his side, closer to her, and hesitated before slowly dragging a finger down her bicep, watching as goose bumps cropped up on her skin. He cracked a small smile.
Earlier that morning had been better than he’d ever thought it could be, which had surprised him to no end. After his wife had died, all those months ago, he thought he’d never feel anything real again, but since he’d met Riley, things had been different. He had been different. He hadn’t decided if that was good or not; his emotions were a mess and, on a subconscious level, had been since day one. He didn’t want to imagine the fallout that would result from this moment of weakness.
Scott realized he was absentmindedly tracing his fingers up and down Riley’s arm. He started to pull his hand back, but she was already stirring, so he didn’t see the point. Riley burrowed her face into the pillow underneath her head, almost nuzzling into it, like she was resisting waking up. Then she turned her head toward him and murmured, “What time is it?”
“Late,” he answered then amended it to, “Late enough. We should think about getting up.”
Riley yawned. “I’m thinking about it,” she mumbled. After a brief pause, she added, “Nope. Really not that appealing.”
He stifled a laugh, even as he wondered what the
proper etiquette was for the situation in which he found himself. He’d never been one to indulge in anything resembling a one-night stand—though, even now, he wasn’t sure if this was considered a one-night stand—and didn’t know how to approach the situation with Riley. But she took care of it for him. As he stewed over the social niceties that he was sure accompanied activities like these, Riley yawned again, threw back the covers, and crawled out of bed. “Where you going? I thought getting up wasn’t appealing.”
“I said it wasn’t appealing. I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.” Her bare back lengthened as she stretched, raising her arms high above her head. Then she started gathering her clothes, pulling them on as she came across them and tossing Scott his in the process. “So what’s the game plan?” she asked. “I know we still need to call Z and Ashton and update them, but do we want to move the meet-up location?”
“No,” Scott answered. He pushed into a sitting position, found his shirt in the tangle of clothes on the bed, and tugged it over his head. “Jackson Square is the best place near here,” he continued. “We’ll be able to see people coming at us more easily there than anywhere else.”
“Good point,” Riley said. “But what about the cops? We’ll be as visible as anybody coming at us, and if the cops are looking for us…”
“Everything has a trade off,” he said. “Unfortunately, I think we’re going to have to risk getting spotted by the cops. Considering they’ve only seen us in person once, maybe none of them will recognize us.”
“Maybe,” Riley muttered. She sat on the edge of the bed and started pulling on her socks and tennis shoes. Scott did the same, clearing his throat as he clumsily laced up a shoe.
“Riley, should we…talk about earlier today?” he asked cautiously, double-knotting his shoe lace and dropping his foot to the floor, trying to ignore how badly his broken arm was aching.
Wicked Creatures Page 13