Soul and Blade

by Tara Brown

  BOOKS BY TARA BROWN ALSO WRITING AS

  T. L. Brown, A. E. Watson, Erin Leigh, and Sophie Starr

  Blood and Bone

  Blood and Bone

  Sin and Swoon

  The Devil’s Roses

  Cursed

  Bane

  Hyde

  Witch

  Death

  Blackwater

  Midnight Coven

  Redeemers

  The Born Trilogy

  Born

  Born to Fight

  Reborn

  Imaginations

  Imaginations

  Duplicities

  The Blood Trail Chronicles

  Vengeance

  Vanquished

  The Light Series

  The Light of the World

  The Four Horsemen

  The Single Lady Spy Series

  The End of Me

  The End of Games

  The End of Tomorrow

  The Crimson Cove Mysteries

  If At First

  The Lonely

  Lost Boy

  My Side

  The Long Way Home

  First Kiss

  Sunder

  In the Fading Light

  For Love or Money

  White Girl Problems

  The Seventh Day

  The Club

  Sinderella

  Beauty’s Beast

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Tara Brown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503950443

  ISBN-10: 1503950441

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  CONTENTS

  1. EIGHT-SIX-SEVEN-FIVE-THREE-OH-NINE

  2. LET’S TALK ABOUT SEX

  3. RADIO NOWHERE

  4. I SAY A LITTLE PRAYER

  5. S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!

  6. CUPID’S CHOKEHOLD

  7. I’LL MAKE LOVE TO YOU

  8. PILLS AND POTIONS

  9. SHE BLINDED ME WITH SCIENCE

  10. BELLE OF BELFAST

  11. BACK IN THE USSR

  12. ALL NIGHT LONG

  13. SLOW IT DOWN

  14. BILLY, DON’T BE A HERO

  15. SHE TALKS TO ANGELS

  16. CRASH INTO ME

  17. HO HEY

  18. ADDICTED TO YOU

  19. TATTERED BANNERS AND BLOODY FLAGS

  20. ELASTIC HEART

  21. MARRY YOU

  22. WEDDING DRESS

  23. A DOG’S LIFE

  24. ALL OF ME

  25. NO ANGELS

  26. AM I WRONG?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1. EIGHT-SIX-SEVEN-FIVE-THREE-OH-NINE

  ANDREA!”

  I glance back, searching for the person calling me. The voice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it in the second it takes to turn and recognize Rory’s smile. Straightaway I return the favorable look and shout, “Did you have to run to catch me?”

  My question surprises both of us. I don’t understand how I didn’t know it was him, and he looks puzzled as he answers, “I did. Ya got some pace going there!” He speeds up. His Irish accent sounds thicker with his huffing and puffing.

  I continue walking, clicking my heels on the dry concrete. I know he’ll catch up. He’s more than a foot taller than I am and runs just because he enjoys it.

  “How do ya walk so fast for someone so short?” He nudges me when he catches up, sucking wind.

  I stare up into his blue eyes and grin, lost for a second on the details. I’m always missing the details. There’s a sea of knowledge in my head; I can feel it, but I don’t know how to tap into it when I need to. My memory is such a mess.

  I know I walk this same treed street in Manhattan all the time, from our apartment to my small office in the Village.

  I know I love where my office is. The location seems a little less hectic than uptown, and the streets feel old, like they have a lot of heritage. The brick buildings and old row houses are a comfort.

  I like being surrounded by them.

  But I do wish it wasn’t here where the whole world seems to be, always buzzing around and constantly moving.

  Rory is the other thing I am certain of. My heart tells me that he’s mine and I’m his and this small piece of the world is ours. The rest has always been a haze of uncertainty. Looking at him, I realize I don’t need certainty about anything else. I have love and that’s more important.

  He links his fingers with mine, making my small hand appear childlike. “Do ya have an early appointment?” he asks. “I made ya a bit of breakfast before I realized ya were gone.”

  “Sorry, I do. I looked at my calendar and realized I had rescheduled one of my regulars for the morning instead of the usual lunch appointment. She likes to pretend she’s having lunch with friends instead of seeing me. Anyway, you were sleeping when I got up. I didn’t want to disturb you. You looked peaceful.” I nod, but I don’t remember the fact he was sleeping. That fact’s just part of the knowledge cloud I have. My rotten memory should hinder my work as a therapist, and yet it doesn’t. I keep meticulous notes and a rigid calendar.

  “I think I was peaceful. When I woke I felt great and I made pancakes, so ya can have the leftovers tomorrow,” he says as he swings our arms.

  —We swing arms.

  —We dance.

  —We like scotch and cigars.

  —We like this street with the trees overhead and the old feel to the neighborhood.

  All of this I know. But I only know it because I repeat it. Usually when I am alone so I can speak the list. It helps me remember better.

  I hate that I have to list the facts—that I have to remember this way.

  I hate it more that he endures it and doesn’t complain.

  Instead, he lifts my hand, pressing his soft lips into the back of it, and offers a look that tells me what’s on his mind. He lingers, kissing it a second time before speaking, almost like he’s talking to my hand. “I made reservations for us at that Thai place ya like.”

  —We like Thai.

  —We like traveling.

  —We have seen the world together.

  —We like spy movies and the news.

  —We are happy.

  I can hear my inner voice repeating it over and over, like I am trying to convince myself. It’s almost like I’m trying to force long-term memories into my new reality, but it’s harder than just repeating something over and over until it becomes more than just a chant.

  The problem is, those words aren’t the only ones I chant. I catch myself doing it most of the time, but it’s not easy being rid of the old feelings and memories. Especially the ones that don’t fit, but also feel right.

  “Dinner? But we have the pottery class later.”

  He looks annoyed as I say pottery. “I had hoped ya would’ve forgotten it,” he sighs, and I wish it was closer to my fa
ce; I love the feel of his breath on my cheek. “Of all the terribly important things ya might remember, this is the thing that sticks? Pottery?”

  I ignore his bitching. “It’s at that old dance studio on East Third. They closed down and now it’s pottery. Don’t be late, okay?”

  He winces. “Will we have enough time to eat if the dinner res is at seven?”

  I contemplate it before I speak. “Just, but I’ll preorder anyway.”

  “All right, yer lucky yer cute.” His Irish accent thickens when he pouts, which is whenever he doesn’t get his own way.

  I nuzzle into him and inhale the mix of deodorant and laundry detergent—a clean, yet somehow sexy smell. “I’m lucky to have you.”

  He kisses the top of my head, taking a long draw off my hair. “Naw, we’re lucky.” He smacks me on the butt softly. “Yer going to have to leave work early, eh? If ya need to be clear across town at six, ya have to leave early.”

  “I’ll work it out.” I nod, searching my brain for the moment where I agreed that him taking the job at the UN in Manhattan was a good idea. I think I love my practice and I know I love our apartment, but I suspect I’ll tire of the city—of the noise. It never dies down. It’s never peaceful. It all seems appealing when you see those scenes in movies where two people stroll around Manhattan in a pocket of silence and serenity. But for some reason I don’t ever seem to be on the right street for those moments. I’m always stuck in the crowds or the moments the cars are passing by.

  But he’s the good part of it all. And that’s probably why I’m here, in this noisy city. Because he is it—all that matters. I give him a soft smile, contemplating where I would have been if it hadn’t been for him—still sitting in the hospital with the other brain-injury patients.

  With a sideways glance, his eyes catch me staring at him, and while he does blush, he doesn’t look at me completely. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I smile wider now that I’ve been caught. “Just thinking about the brain-injury center.”

  He rolls his eyes. “It was years ago. How does it still linger in there for ya like it was yesterday and then ya forget yesterday?”

  “It’s the first thing I remember. You were the first person I saw. You’re my first memory. Your eyes looking down on me and your mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear your voice, not at first.” The memory hurts for some reason.

  He blushes and glances down. He doesn’t have a smart-ass response for that.

  “I won’t ever lose that memory. The world became clearer and my eyes ached, but I forced them to focus on the thing in front of me. Your dark-blue eyes were the first color I saw. You blinked, and all the color left the whole world for a millisecond. And when you opened them, it was as if the entire place lit up, and I saw everything in front of me. The monitors and the walls and the faces of the people behind you. Then you spoke again and I heard it.”

  He swallows. It’s the same every time. He looks like a snake swallowing a mouse the way he gulps. He jokes his way through everything, but he can’t joke about this, it’s too serious. He offers up a sideways glance and tries not to grin. “I don’t like talking about it. Ya know that.” He’s not the sort of doctor to brag about the effort he puts in, but with me he says he hates remembering me that way.

  “I know you don’t like talking about it, but I do. I like remembering. It’s good perspective. When my clients—patients—” I pause and wonder what it could mean that I said clients instead of patients. It’s a strange way to refer to them.

  “What were ya going to say?”

  I blink and stare at him, almost feeling like a whole life passes by my eyes in the second it takes for my brain to grasp what I was saying. “That when they complain, it’s easy for me to see their problems for what they are and easy for me to explain my perspective and how things can always be worse.”

  He grimaces. “Ya share your private life with them now?”

  It takes me a second to answer. “No.” I know I don’t, and yet I paused.

  “Feeling fuzzy?” he asks as we near my office. His tone is the one where he’s trying to be playful, but his eyes reveal his lies. He’s worried.

  “No. I’m good, I swear.” I kiss him, just brushing my lips against his rough cheek. His dark whiskers are slightly longer than they should be for work. I lift my hand, running my fingers across the bristles. “Are you working today?”

  “Aye.” He scratches the dark hair, offering a crooked grin and half laugh. “I am. I have some paperwork to do. It’s nothing too formal today.” He leans back, narrowing his dark-blue eyes. “I thought ya liked my scruff.”

  “I do.”

  He lowers his face to mine, brushing a wet kiss on my mouth, sucking my bottom lip and dragging his teeth. “Maybe I should come inside to check and see if yer couch is as comfortable as I recall it being.”

  I shove him, offering back the wry grin on his face. “I feel like you remember just how comfy it is.”

  He drags me to him, encircling his arms around my back and pressing his wet lips against mine. His tongue caresses mine as his hands knead my back and butt. I give him a slight push, wiping my face. “You are so naughty.” I offer a wave and turn away, skipping up the steps and unlocking the door to my office in the row house. When I step inside and look back, he’s walking away backward, holding his hand to his heart. I blow him a kiss and wave again.

  I can’t stop myself from noticing the cute butt in his dress pants as he turns to flag a cab. I am a lucky girl.

  His steps turn to a jog to grab one, and something about the back of him jogging away from me in the city is off. It disconcerts, but I can’t pinpoint why, so I close the door and put my bag down on one of the armchairs in my window by the old fireplace I have converted to a plant holder. I haven’t ever lit it for fear the ancient thing might cause a fire in the building.

  It’s exactly the sort of cozy office setting I saw myself in. My desk is across the room with a set of comfortable chairs in front of it, and in the back there is a kitchenette and a bathroom and a small storage room. Above me there are two residential apartments, rounding out the three-story row-house building.

  Glancing about the space and admiring it, I see the clock and wince. I have half an hour before my first appointment of the day, with a regular client, which is not enough time.

  Hurrying to the back, I start the coffee and mix my breakfast shake and guzzle it as I check my appointments and start the computer. Being a therapist always seemed like it might be glamorous in my mind. The reality is far less. It regularly consists of me parenting adults and soothing bruised egos.

  The office seems dark, so I walk back to the front, and as I’m opening the blinds, I have the funniest feeling I have missed something important. I glance at the stairs next door and wonder if I am meant to be feeding the cat there.

  I tap my fingers against the window and try desperately to see if the memory pops back into my brain, but it doesn’t. So I hurry to my agenda and check for the name Binx. He is the cat who lives in the townhouse next door. I do love feeding him and pretending I live there. His owner’s townhouse is quaint and cute, exactly the sort of place I see myself in one day—not that I could afford one in Manhattan.

  And if I am meant to be feeding him, I know it’ll be on my agenda. I always add important things to my schedule to help me remember them. But as I drag my finger down the day, I frown, seeing his name isn’t there. Regardless of that fact, I feel like I’ve missed something about him.

  I hurry out of the office and down the front stairs, knowing I won’t rest until I make certain he’s had food and water, on the off chance my hunch is correct. I’d die if he was right next door to me hungry and waiting for his breakfast.

  Mrs. Starling, my neighbor, is the owner of Binx the cat. I hate admitting it, but Binx is pretty much my best friend. I wish he could come and be my cat, but Rory i
s deathly allergic. It’s about the worst thing in my life, aside from living in this godforsaken city.

  I must look crazy running down the stairs, and then up hers right next to mine. But I don’t care; I put the key in and turn the lock, opening the door. In the hallway, as I step in, I see Mrs. Starling in her robe looking back at me with a cup of coffee in her hand. “Next Tuesday, Andrea. You feed our dear boy next week. Remember, I’m going to see my sister in Detroit.” She gives me a grin through tangled gray hair. She knows me too well.

  I pause and nod, feeling heat on my cheeks. She gets it and I hate it.

  “You might as well come in now; you’re halfway in. And you know if he sees you he’s going to be upset if you don’t say hello.” She chuckles.

  “Well, maybe a quick pet and a snuggle.” I close the door and walk in, laughing and shaking my head. “I don’t know why I thought this week.”

  She pats my back as she leads me to the living room. “Come in.” She might be older and sort of eccentric, but she’s my friend too. I like the closeness of someone else next door, their wall touching yours, but they aren’t so close they can see you or hear you. It’s comforting to know they’re there if you need them.

  The moment I see him and his black-and-white fur, I drop to my knees in my work clothes, not even caring. He scampers to me, looking like he has Russian pants on the way his fur is puffy halfway up the leg. Our love and devotion were instant, a spark like soulmates might experience. Not a lady with her work neighbor’s cat. It has always been this way with us.

  I pet his soft coat, scratching deep in the places he likes. I’m always ready for the moment when he’s done and he’s about to get feisty. He’ll tense, and if you don’t stop petting, he will scratch.

  “I have never seen him take love off a single person the way he does with you. He genuinely adores you.”

  “He’s my man. I love his little face and his name; it just rings a bell with me. Right, Mr. Binx? You’re a Binxy bear. My Binxy bear.” I beam at him, but speak to her. “I love being near him. He just makes everything else feel like nothing.” He assumes I’m speaking to him and meows back in perfect timing.

  We both laugh, and I catch a glance of the clock behind her. “Crap, is that the time?”