COME, THE DARK: (Forever Girl Series Book Two)

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Except when I’m hungover in the shower.

  After I’m certain I have caused a water crisis, I towel off and dress, thinking about Syd’s deliciously tight body. Too bad I have a rule against keeping in touch. She would definitely be on speed dial.

  I whistle a little tune as I unlock the safe bolted to the wall in my walk-in closet. Inside the safe are dozens of wallets, each labeled with the name of the setup.

  I return Leo Hartz, since no one busted him during the last assignment. Alan O’Neill is going out to eat today. I cram the wallet into my pants pocket with my phone, pluck my keys off the nightstand, and head out.

  The neighborhood is quiet, and that’s how I like it to be. No one around here knows I work for Karl. No one around here knows me at all.

  I unlock my Corolla and slide in as the house cleaners turn in. I pull down the sun visor and then remember I need to have someone pick up the Accord and swap out the license plate. Safety measure. That and maybe a new coat of paint. I like to keep things mixed up. Throws the proverbial dogs off the scent. I’m not worried about authorities, but if they do sniff me out, I will have to uproot. I’m kind of partial to this house, since my father raised me here and all.

  Something tells me if I screw up and get people nosing around the operation, my next place will make a Medieval dungeon look like the Marriott.

  My stomach growls, returning me to the task at hand. I start the engine, then decide to head to a cafe across town. Laziness has been getting the best of me lately. Time to start circling wider before I become a regular to some waitress.

  Thirty minutes later, I pull into a cafe parking lot. My brain is pulsing. Damn hangover.

  Inside the cafe, the scent of hot coffee and grease greets me. I take a seat at an empty table near the door. A small check-out counter sits in front of the pass bar. Only two people are in sight, and one—an older guy—is adding up pennies. He uses a finger to jerk them aside, his mouth moving as he counts.

  The woman, about the same age, spots me, grabs a menu from a rack on the side of the counter, and crosses the small room.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” She lays the menu on the table. “Coffee? Orange juice?”

  “Yes, both.” I don’t open the menu. “Blueberry pancakes, bacon well-done, hash browns.” I think of the cougar bartender and grin. “And eggs, over easy.”

  The waitress nods, takes back the menu, and strolls away.

  My pocket vibrates. I dig out my phone and touch the screen. I have a text message.

  Just wanted to apologize for leaving in a rush this morning. -Syd

  What the shit?

  I scowl and type back. How the hell did you get my number?

  After pressing send, I realize it’s not the smoothest way to handle the situation, but a terrible feeling is brewing in my stomach. And it’s not just the lack of food anymore.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Oh. When you were freshening up, I grabbed your number off your settings. Sorry if that bothers you.

  If that bothers me? Why the fuck was she snooping around my phone?

  Another message comes in from her. Sorry. I know it sounds terrible.

  I reply. It’s fine.

  Nothing a call to the phone company won’t fix. Change of number, and goodbye Syd.

  Hopefully she isn’t bold enough to show up to my place uninvited, since I didn’t get to be the morning-after asshole. God dammit.

  The waitress brings coffee, creamer, and a glass of orange juice. She leaves without a word. I stare at my phone, trying to understand how Syd had deemed it appropriate to lift my info.

  I text her again. Why did you take my number?

  A moment later, she replies. I thought you said it was fine.

  I lied.

  The text messages stop coming in. I probably upset her, but I don’t feel bad about it. She rifled through my shit.

  No more house guests. I knew better, but I have no idea how to explain a hotel charge to Karl. Time to figure that out.

  The waitress brings the plates of food, and my attention focuses on the meal. Fluffy blueberry pancakes topped with a swirl of whip cream. Bacon cooked to a crisp. Hash browns...Well, they aren’t really hash browns. Country potatoes, but it’s all good with a little Tabasco.

  I pick up my fork to dive in, and my phone vibrates. So Syd decided to reply after all. With an irritated sigh, I poke the screen to read the message.

  I can explain it better in person. Want to meet for lunch?

  No, I do not. I want her to stop ruining the fun reel of last night replaying in the back of my head.

  I text without even picking up the phone, I’m over it. Have a good life.

  If she doesn’t take the hint soon, I actually will have to change my phone number—and come up with an excuse to tell Karl. Dammit.

  I pull my plate closer and cut into the pancakes. They really are magnificent.

  The phone vibrates again.

  I drop my fork, snatch up the phone, and press the dial button. The line rings once.

  “Dimitri?” Syd sounds taken aback.

  “For fuck’s sake, woman, what in the name of Beelzebub do you want?”

  She makes an “uh” sound. Then she seems to collect herself.

  “I’m not trying to be that girl. I know it was a one-night stand. But, I do feel bad for taking your number, and—”

  “So stop using it,” I snap.

  I hang up and go back to eating.

  The phone vibrates with an incoming call.

  I growl and answer it. “Go away, Syd.”

  “Now you’re just being a jerk.” She sounds angry, but her voice quivers. “A lot of shit has gone down in the last twenty-four hours, and I just wanted to apologize to you. Go to hell.”

  She hangs up.

  My eggs are getting cold.

  I hate cold eggs, but I hate being the bad guy more so. This is one of the few times I’m not forced to be, even though I would really like for her to get lost.

  I finish my pancakes, then resign to calling her back.

  She answers on the third ring. “What now?”

  She sniffles.

  “Have you been crying?” My mouth slams shut.

  I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know if she was crying, or why she made off with my phone number, or anything else about her or her life. She has taken all the fun out of our drunken shaboink.

  “Why are you calling me, Dimitri?”

  “I’m going to text you the address to the cafe I’m at. You have thirty minutes to get down here if we really have to do this.” I punch the disconnect button and text her the address, ‘cause I’m a man of my word.

  Or whatever.

  I finish my food, except the eggs. The waitress clears my plates and refills my coffee. In ten minutes, Syd is standing at the cafe entrance, staring at me.

  I wave her over.

  She drops into the opposite seat, purse thudding to the floor in unison. She’s wearing a long t-shirt that has been cut and tied until it’s not really a t-shirt anymore and skin-tight black pants. Her cheeks have this glittery dust on them, but she looks way too pissed off to be a fairy.

  “Fuck you, Dimitri.”

  “No do-overs,” I say.

  She lifts her arm to beckon the waitress, but keeps her eyes on me. When the waitress comes over, Syd says in a gentle tone, “Coffee, black, please.”

  The waitress walks away.

  Syd’s voice darkens again. “You don’t have to be a prick. I just wanted to explain what happened with the phone number.”

  I shrug. “Explain.”

  She glowers, then she leans back in her chair. “I had a one-night stand at a hotel once, and later I couldn’t find the guy when I thought I was pregnant.”

  “Hold up. You said you had that taken care of.”

  “Well, I do, now.”

  The waitress sets a coffee mug in front of Syd and leaves.

  I narrow my eyes. “That t
hought hadn’t crossed your mind?”

  Syd picks up her coffee but doesn’t drink any.

  “Well, if you’re all responsible now,” I say, “then you didn’t need my number.”

  “Things happen.” She shrugs. “I try to always be prepared.”

  “Pretty sure that’s not what the Girl Scouts had in mind.”

  “You were drunk and horny, so I figured it was easier just to grab it off your phone.” She sighs and drinks her coffee, then wrinkles her nose. “This is really bitter.”

  I push the bowl of creamer toward her.

  She plucks out one of the tubs and pulls back the top. “You know, there’s a coffee made from monkey shit. It’s like the most expensive coffee in the world or something.”

  “Sounds like the high-life to me,” I reply, deadpan.

  She smiles, but it only serves to emphasize the bleakness in her eyes.

  I could ask why she’s sad, and she would probably tell me. I do not like this idea.

  She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Since we’ve got everything out in the open, want me to stop by this evening?”

  My first inclination is to say yes, then I remember there is the off-chance Karl might summon me. Unlikely for at least a few months, though.

  But I do have that rule against bringing home the same girl twice. The rule isn’t usually difficult to keep. Syd, however, is terribly tempting. Even as annoyed as I am with her right now, she just might become the first exception. Something tells me she’s burying her troubles, and I’m more than willing to help a good cause.

  I drink my coffee, mulling over the presented opportunity. “You got a lot of guys spitting game, I’d imagine?”

  She looks stunned, then her cheeks flush. “Yeah, there’s a few, I guess.”

  “Well, that makes things easier,” I say.

  She laughs. “I’m not going to demand an engagement ring for Christmas, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Smart lady,” I say.

  “No offense, but I didn’t expect to find my Prince Charming at a bar.” She shrugs. “It’s just for fun. What about it? You on board?”

  I really should tell her to take a hike, but clearly my self-control is on hiatus.

  I grin. “Hell yeah.”

  ***

  Eight o’clock that evening, someone knocks on my front door. It’s Syd, of course. I don’t have many visitors. Any, actually. Except the house cleaners, and they are long gone.

  I open the door, but lean against the jamb. “Funny, they don’t usually send the same girl twice.”

  “I’m the only one who would deal with your stupid ass.” She pushes past me and invites herself into the living room.

  I lock the door and turn toward her. “Make yourself at home. All my important documents are in the top dresser drawer.”

  “Are you really gonna be a jerk about it?” She puts her hands on her hips. “I thought we were going to fuck.”

  “That’s what the advertisement said.” I nod toward the hallway, then head for it.

  She follows right behind. “You sure you single? This place is way too clean and organized for a bachelor.”

  “Positive.” I push open the bedroom door and step back with a gesture. “Ladies first.”

  She enters, flipping the light switch on the wall. “Do you live with your mom?”

  “Yes, she’s downstairs watching Jeopardy. I told her I was having a sleep over.”

  I halt in the doorway, taking in Syd’s body. Unbelievably, she is back for round two. More unbelievably, I let the little crook into my house again. I still have no idea what I would tell Karl about a hotel charge, though. I will just have to keep an eye on her this time.

  “You’re lying.” She turns to face me. “There’s no downstairs. Is your mom that type who shows up every week to do the cooking and cleaning?

  “Can you stop asking stupid questions?”

  She blows air through her teeth. “You suck.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” I fold my arms. “Want some wine?”

  She drops her purse on the floor next to my bed. “That’s more like it.”

  “Red or white?”

  “Didn’t realize I was in the presence of Dionysus.” She perches on the edge of the mattress. “Red, please.”

  I consider skipping the drinks altogether and just taking her right there. So many beautiful things await under those clothes, ready to be explored all over again.

  Instead, I turn around and cross the house to the kitchen. A half bottle of Malbec waits in the fridge. I pour a glass, think better of it, and pour one for myself too. Then I return to the bedroom.

  She has her shoes off, sitting cross-legged on the bed, but hasn’t removed anything else. Thankfully. That’s part of the fun.

  I knock the door shut with my foot and hand her a glass.

  She sips her wine, looking oddly sophisticated for someone with Ozzy Osbourne eye makeup and enough silver in her ears to take down a werewolf.

  She peers up at me. “Is it a celebrity?”

  I stare at her, dumbly.

  “The person you protect, is it a celebrity?” Her eyes light up. “Oh! Is it Stevie Nicks?”

  “What? No.”

  “Linda Ronstadt?”

  “No.”

  She bounces a little on the mattress. “Is it Jenna Jameson?”

  “Good god, Syd.” I move forward and take her glass, then place it with mine on the nightstand.

  She says, “You didn’t drink any of your wine. Did you—”

  I interrupt the chatter mouth with a kiss. I like kissing. For a moment, I can pretend the person knows everything about me and doesn’t mind. It’s a nice fantasy. The fact she has been in my bed before makes the lie that much easier to believe.

  My hand slides under the back of her intentionally shredded shirt. Her skin is soft, and she tips her head back with a little moan. The familiarity of the sound is tantalizing. I lean in and kiss her neck. Her breathing quickens as I make my way down to her collarbone.

  Even knowing what waits for me, I want to take my time. Kiss every part of her from her lips to her knees. Never thought revisiting could be so rousing.

  My fingertips follow up the length of her spine until reaching fabric. She’s wearing a sports bra. Seriously?

  I pull back, lifting her t-shirt over her head and tossing it aside.

  My gaze settles over the plump rises. The sports bra isn’t that bad. Still, like a liquidation, everything must go.

  I reach for her, then halt. Something is wrong. Not with her.

  With me.

  My vision tunnels. I know this sensation all too well. I start grabbing at the floor, trying to find her shirt.

  “You have to leave,” I say, but my voice sounds distant.

  Minutes. I have minutes. Goddammit.

  My fingers grasp her discarded shirt. I stand upright and struggle to see. All I can make out is her hazy form.

  “Dimitri?”

  I hook her under one armpit and fumble with the doorknob, her shirt still in my hand.

  “Dimitri, what are you doing?”

  Her body tenses. I march her down the hallway, my consciousness waning. That’s how it feels, anyway. I’m not actually going to pass out.

  Much worse.

  The doorknob on the front door jingles as I fight with the lock. Syd is yelling at me, struggling from my hold. She says something about me hurting her arm.

  I finally tug the door open, then shove her outside. I chuck her shirt in her general direction. She turns to step inside, but I slam the door shut in her face. She yells my name. My back meets the door, and I slide partway down. Waiting.

  She kicks at the door. “My purse is still in there! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I open my eyes.

  I’m standing in a large chamber with an arched ceiling and elaborate metal chandeliers. The walls are painted arabesque designs in shades of teal. Persian rugs, showing age but not wear, hang
like tapestries. Etched lamps, tall hookahs with dozens of hoses, lanterns with colored glass, leather floor cushions, and silver trays propped on wooden legs spread across the floor.

  Down the length of the room hang sheer fabrics in jewel tones, barely obscuring the stage at the far end. The stage stands about three feet high, draped in thick rugs. On the stage rests a throne of hammered silver. Intricate designs wrap across the legs and base, up the high back, and down the arms. The cushion is red and gold.

  I have been in this room more times than I can count. I’m sure the room has been here for a hundred years, even if the mansion has not, and the decor must be ten times as old. The air smells deep and musky with the scent of argan oil.

  “Dimitri.”

  I settle my gaze on the man sitting on the throne. He is tall and wiry, with fair skin, hooked nose, and thin hair. He seems pleased with himself. Then again, he has no reason not to be.

  His name is Karl Walker, and I have known him my whole life.

  “There’s a new wish,” he says.

  He nods, and a man standing at his side, but barely noticeable, steps forward and offers me a manila envelope. The man wears a dark blue and tan uniform, one of the six men who make up Karl’s actual personal armed security.

  I take the envelope, because in minutes I won’t have a choice anyway. I want to ask why he needs me again so soon after the last orders, but I know my place; I keep my mouth shut.

  “I request you hunt down that man and kill him,” he says

  I close my eyes. At least it’s not another kidnapping.

  “Dimitri?”

  I hesitate, then I force my eyes open. The smirk on his face never fails to make my heart drop into my stomach. To make me think that for one day, just one time, I would love to be able to tell him no. To deny his request.

  But I can’t.

  “Seek and kill that man, Dimitri.” Karl smiles, because his next words guarantee he will get his request. “This . . . I . . . wish.”

  A dull hum fills my head. It’s a subtle noise, but it won’t stay that way forever. The further I am from fulfilling the order—the wish—the more obtrusive the sound will become. And that’s just the beginning.

  Like it or not, I have to obey his command.

  That’s right. Karl is my Aladdin and I’m the fuckin’ genie.

  There are a few caveats though: