Missing Lynx

by Quinn, Fiona

  I nodded my agreement; I didn’t trust my voice. My body hummed with anticipation. On the way out of the ballroom, Striker grabbed a bottle of champagne and two glasses from a waiter, pulled me toward the elevator, and pressed the floor button.

  At our suite, Striker swiped the key and pushed the door open. With his hand on my back, he shepherded me over the threshold, and out onto the balcony. Good God what he could do to me. My body vibrated with need.

  The wind, as we stood on the balcony, floated my hair around my face. Striker stood solidly behind me with his protective arms encircling my shoulders, keeping me warm. We watched the beautiful fireworks overhead and mirrored below in the water.

  Striker moved my hair over my shoulder. He bent his head and kissed the nape of my neck. eliciting a deep purr from my throat. The humming in my body took over my senses. I spun around and leaned my head back. Striker’s lips voraciously found mine with tongue and heat. His fingers played along my sides. When he unzipping my dress, I slid the spaghetti straps from my shoulders, letting the glittering material pool at my feet.

  Striker held my hands and stepped back to look at me. I stood naked except for a lacy white thong and my rhinestone sandals. His eyes moved slowly, appreciatively down my body. That look did things to me deep inside.

  I stepped out of my dress, and Striker twirled me slowly around. When his eyes found mine, he gently pulled me back into the suite. “You are so beautiful.” His voice was pitched gruff and low. Striker danced me backward until my bottom pressed against the cool wall. “I love you,” he said. And I felt his words catch me, entangle me, hold me. His lips butterfly kissed down my neck, and I groaned deep in my throat.

  My fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt, and I pulled the silk over his shoulders. Leaning forward to kiss him — my breasts pressed into his chest. His skin was hot against mine, his heart beating a fast tattoo.

  With his hand cradling my head, he leaned in, trapping me against the wall, I felt womanly and powerful and full of want. I moved one leg between his, so I could feel him aroused. Striker groaned against my mouth.

  I reached for his belt buckle, pulling it out of the loops like a whip. His hands cupped my breasts; his thumbs gently circled my hard nipples. He bent his head and whispered in my ear. “I am so in love with you, Lexi. So beautiful. So soft.” He ran his hands down my sides to my hips. “Satin and luxury.”

  I gasped when his fingers traced across the top of my panties.

  Boldly, my fingers undid the top clasp of his slacks and moved his zipper down…I startled when Striker used one hand to stop my progress; his other hand rested on my hip. Striker lay his head against the wall to the side of mine. “Lexi, stop,” came his voice husky and thick.

  “What? Why? No!” I was panting and oh-so-ready. This sudden brake …what had I done wrong?

  “We have to stop,” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to stop. I want you inside me.” Franticly, I reached again for his clasp.

  Striker’s whole body strained. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed out. “Lexi, please stop. I don’t have any protection.”

  “Could we get some?” I asked with the tiniest bit of a slur.

  Striker moved to sweep me with his assessing look. “Have you ever had alcohol before?” He tipped my head up and tried to get me to focus on him. “Have you ever had champagne?”

  “No.” I pouted. Why did he care?

  “Chica, I can’t do this when you’re tipsy.”

  “I want to do this.” I whispered under my breath.

  Striker picked up his shirt, and dressed me in it, slowly buttoning it up. “I am fighting every cell in my body. Believe me, I want to do this too. If we were already lovers, I wouldn’t stop for anything short of a nuclear explosion. But your first time, I need you to make the choice, not let the alcohol choose for you.” He led me by the hand back to the couch, and we sat down.

  “You’re being a good guy.” I was beyond miffed. I was melting from the fire he started inside me and there he sat solid and calm. How the hell did he do that? I squirmed uncomfortably, pushing my thighs together, trying to find relief.

  Striker focused on me. His eyes, black as coal, glittered with intensity. Okay, maybe not so calm.

  “I don’t want you to be a good guy,” I whispered. “I want you to take advantage of me.”

  He pulled me onto his lap. “How are you doing?”

  I sat with that for a minute before I replied. “I’m frustrated as hell… my nose is numb… and my stomach’s a little ishy.”

  Striker gave a low chuckle. “I’m frustrated as hell, too,” he whispered and pressed a kiss onto my temple. His nose rubbed against my hair, and he breathed me in. After a minute, he reached over and called room service to bring us up some food.

  We ate in silence then Striker took me by the hand and walked me into his room. He took his dress shirt off of me, replacing it with a T-shirt that came nearly to my knees. As I sat on his bed, he knelt at my feet to unbuckle my high heels. I felt incredibly sexy as he rubbed a hand up my calf. Don’t stop! Don’t stop now. A little groan escaped my lips, and he stilled. He shook his head slowly “no” and stood to take off his dress pants. He was still hard. Another wave of lust rushed through me, and I watched with disappointment as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He drew me under the covers with him. We cuddled and kissed and spooned, and I fell asleep feeling lonely.

  Fifteen

  I woke up to sticky eyeballs. My head clanged. My stomach churned. Striker lay beside me, bare chested. He reached out and traced a finger down the side of my face, tucking a loose tendril behind my ear. “Feeling rough this morning?” His voice was all concern.

  As Striker waited for my answer, my mind scrambled to last night and how I ended up in his bed. I lifted the sheets to see what I was wearing.

  “Nothing happened.” Striker reassured me.

  “Oh yeah, now I remember.” I blew out a long breath. As my head fell back to the pillow, I squinched my lids tight, and threw an arm over my face to hide. “How embarrassed should I be right now?”

  Striker chuckled, lifting my arm so he could see me. “Not at all embarrassed. You are a very sexy drunk, but a complete lightweight.”

  “I feel awful.”

  “I bet. Let’s get you fixed up.” Striker climbed over me and brought back some Tylenol and a nasty fizzy drink. I had to hold my nose to get the mess down, but I improved dramatically as soon as I did. Striker went off to take a shower. I wished my head wasn’t stuffed full of cotton; I’d like to join him. Still beyond frustrated from last night, I would’ve loved to have his big calloused hands soaping my body. Damned champagne.

  I needed to get myself together. This was the day I’d being meeting Lynda and Cammy. I wasn’t going to be able to handle it feeling like this. While Striker showered, I put my hands to my head and performed Reiki. Reiki was healing energy. Ki meant energy in Japanese, like the chi in Tai Chi I did with Master Wang, or pranayama in yoga I did with my Kitchen Grandmother, Biji. I first became aware that people used healing energy when my mom was in hospice care. Our lead nurse, Kim, did several different energy techniques, and she taught them to me, so I could bring my mom comfort at the end of her life. I’ve used Reiki almost daily since then; it just became part of who I was.

  Sadly for me, it worked far better helping those around me than curing myself. I’ve heard other practitioners say the same thing. I thought there was something intrinsically soothing in just putting hands on someone in a caring way and giving them attention.

  Striker came and sat on the bed. “Reiki?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you doing any better?”

  “Mmm.”

  “When you Reiki yourself do your hands get hot and vibrate like they do when you work on me?”

  “Yup.” I held out my hand to him. Striker brought my palm up to his cheek. “It’s like a heating pad.”

  “Yeah. My headache’s gone, but my teeth are still fu
zzy, and I’m seasick. I should teach you how to do this, so you can help me when I’m injured or ill. Not that I’m planning to need help for a hangover ever again. I think once is enough. Been there. Done that. Never again.”

  Striker laughed. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Not from me you haven’t.”

  Someone knocked at our door, Striker went to answer and came back in with a tray. “Here, Chica, I need you to eat this. It’ll help settle your stomach.”

  “Is this what you eat when you get a hangover?” I cut into my steak and nibbled a bite of scrambled eggs with salsa.

  Striker sat at the end of the bed with a plate balanced on his knee. “I don’t get hangovers. I pace myself.”

  “Where did you learn this trick?”

  Striker looked at me, weighing his words.

  “That’s alright. You don’t have to tell me about all the women who have tumbled into your bed, with or without the need for morning remedies. You especially don’t have to tell me about Falicia.” Oh, jealousy had a painful bite.

  “I have a past, Chica. If you ever need to know something to make you more comfortable, just ask, and I’ll tell you. Though right now, I’m enjoying your green-eyed monster act.” His teasing just added salt to the wound.

  “Hmm. I think the only green-eyed monster around here is living in my stomach as a result of you plying me with champagne, Commander Rheas,” I pronounced with slitty eyes.

  Striker threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I knew it! The whole ‘I entertain when they want to impress,’ and the show-off scene with the card in the bottle. Brilliant!”

  I smiled warmly back at him in between bites. I probably should be ticked at him mocking me, but he had such an honest, wholehearted laugh, and to be truthful, he was right.

  “Okay, Chica, time for you to get up and take a shower.” Striker moved my tray to the side table. “I put your robe in my bathroom. You have thirty minutes until we need to leave.” He lifted back the covers. During the night his T-shirt had worked its way up past my waist, and I lay there splay legged in my little lace panties. Striker froze with the blanket in his hand. His eyes settled on the bit of lace and crystals I wore. His eyes moved slowly up my body with a question in his eyes.

  I pushed myself out of bed, pulling the T-shirt down. “All this time I thought you were a good Boy Scout. What happened, huh?” I stalked toward the bathroom.

  “What do you mean?” Striker followed closely behind.

  “I thought their motto was to ‘always be prepared.’ You still don’t have any protection.” I gripped the knob.

  “I can get some, Chica. I can be back in five minutes flat — just leave the bathroom door unlocked.” His hand blocked me from closing the door all the way.

  “Uh-uh. You missed your opportunity. Now, I’ve got thirty minutes to get ready for Cammy’s party.” I pushed his hand out of the way, shut the door, and turned the lock.

  “Are you punishing me?” Striker called.

  “You feel like I’m punishing you?” I shouted as I adjusted the water temperature.

  “A little, yes.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “Lexi, you know, I never was in the Boy Scouts, but you’d better believe I’ll be living up to their motto from here on out,” he hollered in to me.

  A grin played over my mouth.

  I stood under the warm water for a long time. We’d be late, and to tell the truth, I was glad. I wasn’t looking forward to this at all. Once I stood under the shower, I realized probably only a little bit of my nausea came from last night’s drinking. It was mostly nerves. A whopper of an anxiety attack doubled me over and had me panting with my hands resting on my knees like I just ran a marathon. Lynda would surely be asking me questions about the night I helped to save her and Cammy. I didn’t want to remember, and I didn’t want to talk about going behind the Veil.

  Back when I was unschooled, one of the mentors who expanded my perception of reality the most was Miriam Laugherty an honest-to-goodness Extrasensory Criminal Investigator. She worked up and down the East Coast for various law enforcement agencies. When Miriam learned about my natural ESP experiences, she took me under her wing.

  I had made up my own vocabulary to try to describe what I called “going behind the Veil,” separating from my body and existing on a different plane. Apparently, Miriam started the same way. She said she’d like to train me as a potential partner. Miriam needed someone who could work with her and help her lighten her case load and increase her solve rate. I studied with Miriam to find out what it was like, and figure out if I even had the talent to do this kind of work.

  After a great deal of study and practice, I performed some basic searches for Miriam. But unlike Miriam I made brutally painful physical and mental connections with the victims, and I decided I couldn’t do that kind of work. I stayed away — far away — from anything remotely associated with “walking behind the Veil.” That was, until I lived in the safe house.

  One awful night, Gater and Jack came in covered in mud and blood. They’d been ambushed. I performed Reiki on them, waiting for transportation to get there and take the men to the hospital. While I worked, the healing energy turned into something else, something I didn’t recognize. I tried to talk it out with Striker and told him all about my ESP, but this tread so far from his understanding of the world that all he could do was offer to serve as my sounding board.

  The next day was one of anguish. I had never endured those sensations before — like I wanted to take off my skin and lay it neatly on the chair; like my lungs had no capacity for breath; like blue electrical charges moved in my veins instead of red blood cells. Something called me from behind the Veil and this time my experience came from a direction I’d never experienced before. This call came at the behest of a group of women in Africa.

  The images offered to me told me that Striker had done something extraordinary for their village. I knew these women sang and did rituals daily, including Striker in their protective rites. They sensed my attachment to Striker and realized I had power, so they called to me. Their magic was strong. But not strong enough to stop the madness half a world away in America. They wanted to work through me and with me. I needed to stand between Striker’s sister and niece and the unknown threat.

  Relief only came when Striker burst through the door at the safe house, pictures of his family in hand. I took the photos from him and flew out of my body for a hell-filled night.

  I merged with his sister, Lynda, trying figure out who had kidnapped them, and where they were taken. I became one with Lynda when they dragged her into a hunting shack and beat her to within an inch of her life. Iniquus men, not far behind, followed my instructions as I passed them on to Striker. They found Lynda, just this side of dead, and raced her to the hospital.

  The drug lord still held Cammy, hoping to coerce information from her Uncle Juan. I joined with Cammy. Her little three-year-old body had been shot full of drugs to keep her quiet, and they were too much for her. Her system was shutting down. Her breathing became shallow and her blood pressure had dropped too low. I had never experienced trying to save someone through the Veil, but I had to try.

  I followed my instincts expanding and contracting her lungs to help her breathe. I floated on the chants of the tribal women as I helped Cammy’s heart to beat. The Iniquus cars screamed through the night, as Striker and the men tried to reach Cammy and save her life.

  Just like the last time I went behind the Veil, when I was working with Miriam, I came back to my body, but fell into a deep recuperative trance. This time, I needed more than a week and an intravenous bag of blood to recover from my wounds and to gather myself together and become whole again.

  I don’t regret helping.

  Realizing Cammy had seen and heard me, while she was drugged, was truly amazing since I wasn’t literally there. I was being not so safe, in the safe house, miles away. I had only sent my spirit out to her. Yes. That con
cept even stretched the boundaries of my imagination, and I had always thought my boundaries were pretty darned elastic.

  Okay. I was wigged out. To tell the honest truth, I never wanted to meet Lynda and Cammy. I would rather let the images of that night lay in my past. I didn’t want to see the destruction wreaked upon Lynda’s body, or know Cammy had physical substance. What almost happened to that little girl was so horrific. I’d rather all of this remain a nightmare from which I awoke, and not reality. But what I would rather happen seemed irrelevant.

  Sixteen

  Our cab threaded through the city. The wind blew hard, making the palm trees sway. I smoothed down the full skirt of my 1950s-style raw silk dress. The beautiful, deep indigo blue reminded me of ocean water; I hoped the color would evoke a sense of peace in me today. I slid my feet nervously in and out of my patent leather kitten pumps. Anxious and twitchy, I spun Angel’s rings around my finger.

  “What?” Striker’s brows knit together as he studied me, puzzled.

  “They know we’re not married?”

  “I haven’t talked with them about our relationship; we’re a little undefined right now.”

  I nodded and twisted my rings some more. I pulled them off of my left hand and moved them to my right hand. I stared out the window as we pulled up to the community center. The number of cars parked in the lot astonished me. My eyes stretched wide as I turned to Striker. “Are all of these people here for Cammy’s party?” My words came out all breath and no voice.

  “My extended family usually does a gathering on January first each year, because getting everyone together at Christmas is hard. Since Cammy’s birthday is on the 5th, we celebrate her at our annual party. Didn’t I tell explain this to you?”

  “No. No, you didn’t.” I measured my words to hide my distress.

  “Is this okay? I wouldn’t have thought this would faze you.” Striker put a hand on my knee, quietening my twitchiness.