Sixpence & Whiskey

by Heather R. Blair

  “Well, then,” he looks down at the clipboard in his hand, “know anyone who can take two cases of Cuervo off our hands? At cost?”

  I do. “Let me make a call.”

  To my surprise, when I ring the Den, it’s Georg who picks up on the first ring.

  “Hey.” His voice is gruffer than usual. For some reason, I feel a pang of guilt, which is freaking ridiculous after the shit he has pulled, but still…I should’ve called before now. Then again, why the hell didn’t he call me? My throat tightens.

  “It’s Seph. I guess you found your way home then, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yup.”

  The monosyllabic dance gets old fast. “You could’ve had Stephen drop me a line to let me know. Or done it yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Georg—”

  “Oh cut the shit, Seph.” He doesn’t sound mad, just worn out. “We both know you haven’t given a thought to me since Stephen left T&T.”

  “That’s not true.” And it isn’t. His name is right in front of me. On the list I was doodling. But, other than how he fits into the highly tenuous suspicions I’m currently having about my mom’s disappearance and why the Dark Council might be after me, Georg is right. I’ve been far too busy to worry about him. “Are you really okay? Jett’s magic can have nasty side effects—”

  “I’m fine, Seph. Some friends pulled my ass out of the harbor. I just stayed with them for a few days before going home. Thanks for checking up on me. After two weeks.” The sarcasm cuts so thick it practically takes my ear off.

  “You’re a big boy, Georg. You deserved that dunking and you know it.”

  “You really think so, do you?”

  “Oh, holy horned one, what do you want me to say? ‘Sure, Georg, it’s fine you used my ex-lover as a contractor to kidnap me . And it’s fine you haven’t been able to take no for an answer, and it’s fine that you’ve managed to ruin our friendship in the process. No problem at all.’ That what you want to hear?”

  “So, now we’re not even friends anymore?” If possible his voice grows even gruffer.

  “Friends listen to each other, you thick-headed bruin.”

  “You’re right, Seph. Absolutely right. So listen up. Things aren’t always what they seem. You need to open your eyes, sweetheart. Before someone gets hurt. God knows I’ve tried, but you never could see what’s right under your nose.”

  “So, is it my nose or my eyes I need to open? I’m confused.”

  “Yeah, you sure as hell are.”

  Before I can ask him to clarify, the phone goes dead. He hung up. Georg never hangs up on me.

  And I didn’t get to run what Tyr said by him. Or offer him the damn alcohol.

  Serves him right. But Georg doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. I do. A part-time lover—sure, that’s one thing. But more importantly, a friend. One of the only males I could ever trust.

  That changed completely this past year, of course, but I never really asked myself why. I thought he was just pissed about the proposal deal, but I never looked too closely at why he proposed in the first place. Yeah, Georg has a bit of a crush on me, and yeah, bruins do like their kings settled. Even so, Georg is pretty young yet, older than me by a couple years, but still this side of thirty.

  Why was he so all-fired ready to take that step? And why did he get so frustrated when I said no? I attributed it to macho shifter bullshit, but what if it was more?

  I add it to the growing list of shit I should probably figure out someday soon and move on.

  I end up having Benji put the damn tequila in the Fiat. Both cases won’t fit in the back, so I have him put one in the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt to hold the damn thing in place. Click it or ticket, right? I contemplate drawing a mustache and sombrero on the box, but I restrain myself.

  “This is gonna look real weird if you get pulled over,” Benji observes.

  “I never get pulled over.” And I never will. The scrollwork in the glove box makes sure of that. “I’ll leave them at the house tonight and we’ll be golden.”

  And I mean to, really, I do. But when I get home, I’m too damn tired to haul that heavy-ass tequila up our formidable stairs. “Sorry, José, you get to sleep in the car tonight.” I give the box a pat and drag my ass inside.

  Maybe it’s freaking out about Benji going into the basement, or maybe it’s just that I’ve given up on Tyr giving me anything else useful, but as I climb the steps to my room I decide it’s time to let the assassin go. Killing him in cold blood isn’t in me, and holding him is dangerous to both my employees and my customers.

  Sticking out my tongue at my face in the dresser mirror, I turn to climb into bed. I love my bed, a huge platform affair, topped with the thickest duvet known to man. Or woman. All in candy-striped pink. I roll into the heavenly softness with a sigh.

  To my surprise, despite everything that’s been on my mind I fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the mountain of pillows. Sinking right into a dream.

  A place and time I know too damn well. One I have tried desperately to forget while holding onto it with greedy hands.

  I’m out on the ice of Lake Superior, alone.

  Everything is swirling and white, so white my eyes ache with it, blurring until I feel half blind, rubbing at them under my glasses. Of course, the lenses are half frozen and foggy, too, which doesn’t help. Shivering, I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. My innate magic is protecting me from the worst of the wind, but it’s fading fast. I’m exhausted.

  A nasty fight with an ice sprite took a lot out of me. I’d been hearing about all these missing fishermen for awhile and decided for some mad reason it would be a good idea to check things out in case magic was involved. Turns out it was. Yay for me.

  Sprites are like big fairies, except they have a serious dark side.

  Where fairies are merely tricksy and a bit cruel, sprites are downright murderous. This one was no different. She laughed when she saw me coming, but she’s not laughing now. I ate her in the end, but the damn thing hit me with one helluva confounding spell on her way out. Sprite magic is nothing to sneeze at—though normally a confounding spell wouldn’t be too dangerous. It’s only like being very, very drunk. Something that this five-years-younger me is quite familiar with.

  It’s a super happy buzz. So happy in fact, that I’m not worried I’m a mile out on the big lake, with a blizzard coming. Or that I can’t access my magic until the spell wears off. Not without taking the chance of killing myself and everything around me.

  Yeah, not worried at all. Something deep inside me screams a little louder under the happy and I pick up the pace, giggling helplessly with every step on the cracking ice.

  Ahead a shadow looms. In my current state it looks like a big, blue sleeping cat coiled up on the lake.

  “Nice kitty,” I laugh, but a tiny spell-free part of me recognizes it for what it is. An ice-fishing house. Some North Shore fisherman out here in this mess, trying to catch some walleye or pike. Thank god for Minnesota men and their mad ways.

  But when I push open the door, the icehouse is empty, abandoned. One of the sprite’s victims probably put this up before she got to him. The wind behind me swirls inside with a whistling laugh. There is a cot in one dark corner. One blanket, blessedly thick-looking. Some tackle. There are marks in the ice where a portable heater once stood. I don’t think the sprite took it, so some other fisherman must’ve made off with it. I hope the thieving bastard got his. At least there’s a lone Coleman lantern on the cot.

  I pick it up, turning the knob. A weak light greets my aching eyes as I shut the door behind me.

  Minutes later, I curl up on the cot, pulling the blanket up to my chin. Listening to the storm pick up outside. Hoping against hope that my innate magic can keep me alive through the night. Knowing that bet is a long shot, but the damn spell prevents me from working up any real fear.

  We like to bitc
h and whine about it, but fear is kind of a necessity for survival. Without it, I can’t get scared enough to do anything, but I can get tired. So tired…

  When I open my eyes, seemingly an instant later, there is a familiar shadow above me, but nothing will come into focus.

  “I need you to stay awake, Seph.”

  I murmur something unintelligible in response to that deep voice and go right back to sleep.

  There is a sharp crack, and my cheek burns. I sit up, swearing, and this time Jack’s face is crystal clear.

  “Did you just slap me?”

  His gaze finds mine, and it is dark, fathomless and full of something I can’t quite place. Fear? Surely not, but I’m too damn out of it to think. My mind as frozen as my body.

  “I can’t create heat with my magic. You have to cast. Come on, baby.”

  I laugh through chattering teeth. “Can’t. Can’t reach the magic. Fucking sprite.”

  He curses and kicks off his boots. I watch through slitted eyes as he starts to shuck his clothes, unable to turn away.

  “Not going to ask what I’m doing here?” The rasping words make me smile. I’m still far too mellow from the confounding spell. And the sight of Jack undressing doesn’t hurt my mood any.

  “Of course you’re here,” I say with a sleepy smile. “You’re always here.”

  “In an icehouse—is that where you’ve consigned my memory?” He sounds amused. “Fitting, I must say.”

  “In here, you dope.” I tap my temple with one hand. Jack pauses in the act of removing his shirt, but doesn’t comment. He leaves his jeans on, but otherwise bare he slips next to me on the tiny cot.

  I gasp at the shock of warmth, shuddering as his arms wrap around me, pulling me into that lean, ripped body. Jack runs hot, hotter than any shifter I’ve ever met. It hurts because I am so damn cold. The feeling is a bit like shaking out a limb that has gone to sleep; all pins and needles and stabbing pain, but after a minute I’m able to relax into him. Tucking my head beneath his chin, listening to his heartbeat. I know I’m hallucinating, but it feels so damn real. So good.

  As death dreams go, I’ll take it.

  I sigh and snuggle in. “This feels way too familiar, and nice.”

  He makes a noise, somewhere between a grunt and a groan as my thigh slips between his. “There’s nothing nice about me.”

  “Bullshit, you were very nice, once upon a time.”

  “You’re better off forgetting all that.”

  “A girl never forgets her first love.”

  There is a hiss of indrawn breath and Jack mutters something under his breath. I raise my head. “What was that?”

  “You’re so damn naïve, Seph.”

  “No. Normal people call that honest.”

  “Well, if we’re being ‘honest,’” his lips curve in a bitter smile, “you don’t love me, not anymore. I saw to that.”

  I want to tell him that betrayal doesn’t erase love. That it may shatter it into itty-bitty pieces, but that doesn’t mean it up and vanishes. But for once, I keep my damn mouth shut. Even in a dream, there are things best left unsaid.

  In fact—what the hell am I doing talking about this stuff?

  Deciding I’m not taking proper advantage of this dream, I slide my hands up Jack’s chest, letting my nails graze rich, warm skin. “If you really want to heat me up, I can think of a more effective method. You know, since this isn’t real and all.”

  Those beautiful eyes freeze on mine. “Don’t fucking tempt me, princess.”

  But when I move against him, his body responds instantly. His cock hardens against my thigh. I press my lips against his throat to feel his pulse racing. With a curse, Jack flips me over so fast my clearing head goes all woozy again. He’s pinned my hips to the cot, his own gaze steady as a rock.

  “For a dream, you’re awfully uncooperative,” I pout.

  “I’m not a goddamn… Never mind. We’re not gonna fuck, Seph. Not like this. Even I can’t be that much of an asshole. You don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

  “I know what I want, I always have.” My eyes sting at the rejection. Even when he’s just in my own head, Jack is aces at hurting me. “And you’re still an asshole.”

  “Yes, I am, baby. But this asshole wants you just as bad as you want me. You’re making it really hard to be good.”

  I laugh. “Liar. You don’t know what being good is. Though,” I raise my hips deliberately, rubbing against him, “you’ve gotten the really hard thing right.”

  His hands tighten on my skin, his eyes boring into mine. Outside the wind is screaming, but in here the silence stretches and stretches. The moment he snaps is tangible. Jack drops his head into the crook of my neck, his weight heavy against me. Hot breath plumes against my skin for several long moments. Then he gives a low groan, making me shiver as the sound sinks into my skin.

  It’s the sound of defeat.

  Something savage inside me is viciously pleased at that sound.

  “I’m such a fucking bastard,” he mutters against my skin. Jack raises his head, his expression dark. “But we’re doing this my way, princess. There’s not going to be any sex. Just me—making you absolutely crazy.”

  Then his hands are on my jeans, yanking them down. His fingertips tease the edge of my panties, his thumb drawing circles on the inside of my thigh. I don’t bother to halt the moan that escapes my lips when he rips the fabric aside seconds later, replacing it with his fingers.

  I can hear the storm raging outside, feel the fragile icehouse shaking, but I’m not in the least cold anymore. I’m burning up.

  “Tell me you want this, Seph. Say the words.” His fingers move against me and I do more than say them. I scream them.

  And then his mouth is between my legs, and I’m arching up, trying for something beautiful just out of reach. Something that Jack gives me in spades with his touch and his tongue. Over and over again.

  I don’t know how long it is before the last orgasm fades away, but my head is completely clear, and light is seeping through the edges of the ice house door. The storm is over and Jack is gone. Like he was never there. Like I imagined him. Like all those other times before. Those stolen kisses I told myself were all in my head.

  But this time I know better. Because this time Jack left something behind.

  18

  With a gasp, I yank myself from the dream, shaking with cold and desire.

  It takes me a minute to realize I’m not alone. Like I pulled him from the dream with me, Jack is crossing the room, a dark shadow in the night, my flimsy white curtains waving behind him, his eyes bright.

  My freezing bedroom. Where lines of ice are drawing up the creaking windows, forming swirls and patterns against the night. It’s bitterly cold, but my body is on fire. Just like that damn night all those years ago.

  “What were you dreaming about, princess?” His voice is commanding and deep, rolling over my chilled skin to make me swallow hard. The lust from my dream hovers in the air, binding us both to the past.

  “N-nothing much.” I grab for the covers at the foot of the bed, but he snatches them back, throwing them to the floor. He takes me in, from the UMD T-shirt I cut the midriff out of years ago, to the boy shorts that my ass turns into something other than boy anything. I can see the hollow in his jaw flexing in and out

  “A nothing much that made you call out my name?”

  “I didn’t.” My hand goes to my mouth, horrified.

  “You did.”

  In the time it takes my heart to skip several beats, he’s got a knee on my bed, making the mattress dip, his eyes glued to the exposed curve of my side, and the tattoo that stretches from just below my right breast down along my rib cage and over my tummy. I finally took the bandage off earlier tonight.

  “The tree of life,” he murmurs, looking contemplative. “It’s beautiful.” Gently, he runs his thumb along my hipbone, just under the new ink, seemingly unaware of what is hidden among the tangled roots of the
tatt. His name.

  At his touch, my ass comes off the bed, even though I swear I told it to stay put. It’s not my fault that stupid dream memory has my body going off the rails.

  “Oh baby, you’re close, aren’t you?” The words are a whispered caress, barely audible, but they make my toes curl.

  “N-no.”

  “I don’t remember you having a stuttering problem. Or being such a liar.” He moves, his fingers sliding down my hip, until his palm is a warm weight on the top of my thigh. His fingers are an inch from my panties. The dark hunger in his gaze makes me bite back a whimper.

  God, stop. Stop, Jack. That’s what I should tell him, but what comes out is, “What the hell do you remember about me, Jack Frost?”

  His gaze is hooded, his fingertips teasing the inside of my thigh now. “Too much. And not enough. But right now? You coming apart in my hands. Over and over. That’s what you were dreaming about, wasn’t it? The icehouse?”

  I close my eyes and he lets out a long breath.

  “I knew it. How the hell did you figure it out? How did you know that was real?”

  I laugh softly, keeping my eyes shut tight. “You forgot something.”

  “I didn’t leave anything behind. Not once. I’m sure of it.”

  “Your hands, Jack. Where you held me down that night. You marked me.”

  I open my eyes to see him blinking in consternation. He stares down at his hand spread over my bare skin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “You didn’t.” I swallow a laugh. “Not that time. But why, Jack? Why were you there at all?”

  He doesn’t answer my question, if he even knows the answer, which I am beginning to doubt. Jack looks as lost as I feel, emotions tumbling around and around like socks in a dryer. I am acutely aware of the weight of his palm, the coiled strength of that hard body only inches away. I take a slow, shaky breath and Jack’s gaze sharpens, pinning me to the bed.

  “We could repeat that night, Seph. And more.” His voice drops to that roughened rasp that drags all the oxygen from my lungs. “Right fucking now. Just say the word.”