The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing

by Rhodan, Rhea

  Besides, the outfit was a suitable reward for her persistence, and eventual success, in getting hold of Clint. She’d tried and failed twice to call him on Monday, so nervous even her well-grounded land line had fried. Each attempt had required hours of work to return it to a functioning state.

  She’d spent the better part of her Tuesday writing and deleting e-mails between rounds of berating herself for being such a basket case. If the system had crashed five times, well, at least it hadn’t fried again. She’d all but given up by Wednesday, which was probably why she’d succeeded in leaving him a voicemail. Either that, or she’d managed a feat of electrical engineering that would survive the apocalypse.

  Relief at not having to talk directly to Clint had likely been a factor, along with the script she’d written, stating simply that, provided he still wanted to go out with her, he could pick her up at nine o’clock Friday evening. If it didn’t work for him, for whatever reason, he should tell Bill to tell Trina on Thursday. It wasn’t the most efficient method of communication, though Clint’s reply—via Bill, through Trina—had the added benefit of the mediums’ editorial comments.

  According to Trina, Bill had been there when Clint listened to her voicemail. His boss had lit up like Macy’s at Christmas, her father had remarked. Trina said it was a lame expression, but a good sign. She also divulged that it had been her idea for Mr. MacAllen to ask her out—provided he take her advice on style—though wasn’t he sort of hot, even if he was only marginally cool?

  The inside information was a double-edged sword. It reinforced her awareness of the powerful chemistry between her and Clint, as well as their differences. The dilemma of what to wear for a date with him had forced a confrontation with Cayden’s own sense of self, and thus her wardrobe. She’d gone full circle, inevitably returning to where she started, but the process had been harsh. Shopping soothed; gorgeous shoes healed.

  Had she known Clint intended to take her to The Night Crawler, she might have spared herself the entire ordeal, except for the shoes. She looked down from the high stool and rotated her ankle admiringly. Definitely except for the shoes.

  Clint cleared his throat, raising his voice enough to be heard over the Sisters of Mercy’s cover of “Gimme Shelter.” “Is it always this dead in here?”

  “Assuming you’re referring to the level of activity rather than the decor’s intent, it’s only nine-thirty.” Cayden shrugged carefully in the tight corset. “Nothing much happens before midnight.”

  He gave her a small half-smile. “Oh, is that when the undead join us?” The smile was quickly replaced with a cute frown. “Seriously, though, are you sure you’re not hungry? We could go somewhere to eat and come back.”

  They’d had this conversation in his truck on the way here. Clint had felt the need to make certain that by setting the date for nine, Cayden had intentionally passed on dinner, which she had, knowing she’d be too nervous to choke down food. She guessed he’d hedged his bets and eaten lightly.

  “No thanks. If you’re hungry, we can order a snack from the bar. The wings are decent.”

  He flipped open the menu and skimmed it. “What, the Crows’ Wings? Sure that won’t bother you?” His grin, somewhere between uncertain and teasing, could be lethal to her management of the situation.

  “They’re chicken. Better those than the house specialty. Between the way they shape it and the consistency of warm mozzarella, it resembles its namesake a bit too realistically. The Bloody Little Bones are real ants, though, dipped in a sort of red licorice. They’re actually quite delicious.”

  His smile barely flickered. “Crows’ Wings it is, and another beer. Can I get you another Virgin’s uh…?”

  He might have blushed. The light was too dim to be certain.

  “Virgin’s Passion.”

  When he stumbled over the name of her drink again while placing their order, Cayden waited until the server had gone before taking the opportunity to tease him.

  “Which is it that bothers you, Clint, ‘virgin’ or ‘passion?’” She let each word come from low in her throat as she leaned over to whisper in his ear while the corset’s abbreviated cups effortlessly graced him with an excellent view of her cleavage.

  She didn’t need to see him blush; his heated skin heightened his scent. Her own body’s immediate response unsettled her. She forced herself to sit back, pretending to wait for an answer while she tugged the straw with her lips and recomposed herself.

  He swallowed thickly and stammered, “Wh-What’s in it?”

  “It’s a raspberry daiquiri sans rum.” In a bid to press her precarious advantage, she gave him a sultry smile and shrugged less carefully. Little of his sea-colored irises remained as his eyes tracked the movement of her nearly-bared breasts. The air between them crackled. The houselights flickered. Her traitorous pounding heart told her that some time in the last few seconds, she’d morphed from dragon lady to prey.

  Clint coughed and shifted in his chair. He shoved one of his long-fingered hands through his sandy hair as if trying to make it stand up like it usually did. Apparently, he had better luck with his libido, because he cleared his throat and said the last thing she expected.

  “Let me get this straight. You don’t smoke, you don’t swear—even when it’s called for—and you don’t drink alcohol. You have a mostly-hidden tat and the only piercings I can see are those in your ears. Since there’s a half-dozen in each, I guess I’ll give you that one. Really, though, what kind of goth girl are you?”

  Instead of giving in to his baser instincts as he was meant to, Clint MacAllen was genuinely trying to figure her out. She liked it, which was bad. It tempted her to believe he might care about her. Time to rally.

  “Perhaps you should be asking what kind of woman I am, without the preconceived judgments you’ve attached to your concept of goth. However, in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t swear because I believe words have power. I don’t drink because I consider it unhealthy. You need not be curious in regard to additional piercings or tats. While the one I have is extensive, it’s symbolic rather than decorative. I have no need to inflict pain upon my body. Or don’t you think it deserves that degree of respect?”

  “Hold it.” He pushed his chair back from the table and held up his hands. Naturally, his feet could reach the floor from his stool, unlike hers. “That’s not what… I didn’t mean… Of course you…your body…deserves… Damn it, the last thing I meant to do was offend you. I’m only trying to—”

  “Put me into a slot. I’m too round for any of your square holes, Clint.”

  “What if I happen to find round damn tempting?” he shot back, low and loud. He followed the comment with a deliberate visual examination that made her grateful she was sitting down.

  Then she remembered Barbie. “Oh really? Since when?”

  “Since you.” He bit back again, lower still, not quite as loud.

  Clint MacAllen was just a glorified construction worker. He wasn’t supposed to be able to keep up with her. She didn’t like her men feisty, did she? Intelligent, certainly, but feisty apparently made her flash hot and cold, mostly hot. She resisted the urge to fan herself with the menu.

  “Can’t say much for the service in this place,” he groused to no one in particular when she did her best to ignore him. Despite her efforts, he must have realized he’d gained the advantage, because the next thing he said after eyeing the empty dance floor was, “I bet the waitress will bring our order as soon as the DJ plays something someone could dance to.”

  As though on cue, the first piano chords of “My Immortal” by Evanescence flowed plaintively through the speakers.

  “Mmm, a slow one. Who’s got magic now?”

  He drained his beer, got up, and offered her a cocky grin and his hand.

  She offered him a token resistance. “It’s not really
goth music, you know.”

  “Who cares? Who’s pigeonholing now?”

  By then, Amy Lee’s haunting voice, along with the warmth of Clint’s hand, had pulled her onto the dance floor and into his arms. Her cheek was pressed against his broad chest. One of his large, rough hands scorched the bare ribbon of skin on her lower back, the other enfolded her uninjured shoulder. He smelled like soap, sun, sandalwood, and something powerfully male and arousing.

  They moved easily together for two people whose heights were so disparate. He shouldn’t want to dance, much less be so masterly. She shouldn’t be allowing him to guide her with his strength, to turn her into a boneless puddle unable to stand if he weren’t holding her up. And she most certainly shouldn’t want it to go on forever.

  Cayden had drunk alcohol before, once. She’d hated feeling intoxicated even more than feeling sick the next day. This felt similar, except only her brain was numb. Her body was super-sensitive, every nerve ending sending her a message. The same message. She couldn’t bring herself to hate this kind of intoxication, though nothing should feel this sublime.

  That was her last coherent thought. Clint tucked her in closer, shifted a beefy thigh against her hammy one, turned her around and around, led her back and forth. “My Immortal” segued into a slow song she didn’t bother to recognize, then another. The ache of desire grew sharper, stronger.

  When the music changed to a faster beat, she felt like she’d been jerked out of a wicked good dream. The disappointment was nearly painful. The distance from where she’d been to where she stood now—staring dumbly at Clint through clouds of dry-ice fog while trying to think straight, or just stand up by herself—was too far to bridge from one moment to the next.

  She somehow succeeded in excusing herself and teetered off to the ladies’ room. Cayden stared into the mirror while running cold water over her wrists in the sink below. She would have splashed her face had it not meant redoing her makeup. Her small black beaded reticule was still around her wrist, so she compromised by patting cool water on her cheeks with a paper towel, followed by freshening her lipstick. Her breathing had steadied, her brain having used the ritual to regain control. Returned to its rightful position, it scolded her soundly, leaving her chastised, defensive, and faintly irritated.

  Clint took longer making it back to their table than he should have. He could have blamed his daze on the fog machine—had tried once his brain had finally came up for air—but that wasn’t it. It was the Cayden Effect. He’d better get used to it if he intended to keep dating her. That, and uncontrollable erections.

  The voicemail she’d left had more than stunned him. It had turned him inside out, made him go goddamn clothes shopping and skip his biweekly haircut, in case Bill’s daughter knew what she was talking about. Hell, Trina had to know more about fashion than he did.

  He’d replayed Cayden’s message at least twenty times, just to hear the sexy timbre of her voice. Listening to it also made it easier to tell himself he’d imagined last week’s teeming strangeness. Hell, that apartment of hers would set anyone’s imagination running, same as her taste in clothes, the way her skin glowed, and the way it felt even silkier than it looked.

  Damn, he’d better get hold of himself before she returned. She messed up his head so badly, he’d almost blown the date twice already. He’d never been good at talking to women. He hadn’t needed to be. Since his junior year in high school, his affiliations and looks had done his talking for him. He understood that they worked against him with Cayden; they made her distrustful. She didn’t merely look different than the women he’d known, she was different. She was smarter, more talented, a whole lot sexier, and far less predictable.

  He eyed the food and beverages on their table ruefully. The wings looked delicious, and he could really use that beer. But the waitress had brought them while he and Cayden were on the dance floor. No way was he consuming anything that had been sitting here at the table for anyone to do anything to. He’d finished his beer before leaving the table, as always. Some lessons should never be forgotten…

  The party had been the first Clint had attended that included both alcohol and girls. He hadn’t been nearly old enough for either one. He’d had no idea why he was been invited. He’d been too thrilled to worry about it.

  His first beer had tasted bitter, but it had made it easier to talk to the girls. It had also made him have to piss real bad. He’d left his second bottle half-full on the coffee table when he’d gone to search for a bathroom. His first sip after he returned had tasted funny, which he’d mentioned to the senior sitting next to him. The guy had laughed, slammed him on the back, and asked whether he wanted a girlie drink. He downed the beer.

  He’d never discovered what drug or combination of drugs they’d spiked it with. From the time it hit him until the next morning, he remembered little other than distorted fun-house faces laughing, flashes of sharp recurring physical pain, sharper humiliation, his own voice begging, and crawling, lots of crawling—crawling on carpet, crawling on polished wood, crawling over cement, grass, and mud—and through it all, laughter. From the condition of his hands and knees, and his torn and bloody jeans when he woke up, he must have crawled home. For once, he’d been grateful his parents had to work so hard, because it made them sleep just as hard. As far as he knew, he’d managed to creep in without waking them. Neither one ever said a word about that night, other than his mom chiding him gently for having to patch his jeans again.

  He’d started making the promises to himself that morning, important promises. Some of them were general, involving who he would be; others were specific. One was to never, ever, leave a half-full anything behind again, to never consume anything he hadn’t been able to keep an eye on from the second it was delivered until he finished it. Sure, whoever prepared or delivered it could put something in it. He’d be able find out who’d done it, though, easily enough. He didn’t consider this idiosyncrasy anything other than prudence.

  So when Cayden sat down and reached for her drink, he snatched it away.

  “Hey!”

  “I’ll order you a fresh one when the waitress returns.”

  “But this is fresh, and I’m—”

  “Not drinking something that has been left unattended.”

  Cayden’s pretty hazel eyes flashed, her dark full lips pressed in a firm line. God, she looked cute when she was getting ready to spit fire, even if he was clueless as to what had provoked her this time. Every other girl he’d gone out with had told him his insistence was sweet and protective.

  The waitress arrived. Clint couldn’t say whether her timing was fortunate or not. He asked her to take everything back and bring another round. When she informed him he’d have to pay for both orders, he agreed with a shrug and returned his attention to Cayden-of-the-fiery-eyes.

  “Why are we here, Clint?”

  What? Why couldn’t she say anything that didn’t require an interpreter? “I think we’re on a date.”

  “No, I mean why are we here?”

  “You mean at The Night Crawler?”

  She nodded. Her eyes were slits.

  “I thought you’d be more comfortable here.”

  “Really? Are you sure it’s not because you thought you’d be more comfortable here, where no one you know might see you with me? Well, your plan backfired, didn’t it? I don’t need to surround myself with people who look and dress the same way I do to trust they’re not going to poison or drug me.”

  She was right—for the wrong stupid reason, but she was right. When he’d tried to think of where he should take her on their date, he’d ruled out every one of his hangouts, along with everywhere he’d ever taken Darcy. He hadn’t examined his motives too closely. He’d simply told himself the same thing he’d just told her.

  It was bull. He’d recognized the truth the second she’d said it. �
�Look, Cayden, I—”

  “No, you look. Look real hard, because I know I bother you every which way a man can be bothered. It even bothers you that I bother you. If you’re only in it for the obvious, why the pretense? Artifacts? Really? You had me going with that one. I almost believed you were actually interested in me as a person. Pathetic, right? A short fat girl thinking a man like you might want more from her than an easy hook-up.” Her beautiful eyes blazed fire and ice. “You know what? I can do that. You bother me plenty, as well. But if that’s all this is, it’ll be on my terms, when and where, and if you’re lucky, how.”

  The way she smiled after she said the last phrase scared and aroused him. With all of that happening, it was impossible for his brain to send the words to his mouth that might derail this train wreck.

  They would have been too late, anyway. He wasn’t sure how she moved so fast in those obscene shoes, but she was already half way to the door, swinging that little bag around her wrist like a weapon. It was her round ass underneath the short tight skirt and all that black lace that were killing him, though.

  She flung the end of her sexy ruffled lace scarf behind her, flashed blazing eyes over a shoulder so creamy it glowed in the club’s blue light, and said, “Oh, no need to find your tongue now. You won’t be needing it tonight.”

  The hell he wouldn’t. Only the promise of what would come later had allowed him to restrain himself from taking a taste on the dance floor—that and grave doubts as to being able to stop. God, talk about painful pleasure.