by Cate Lawley
My purse vibrated.
“Is that your phone? I thought you turned it off.” Michael shot me a concerned look.
I had. And the timing couldn’t be a coincidence. I knew who it was. Who else could place a call to a dead phone? If I was right, all hell was about to break loose. Or, rather, the devil was about to break loose from hell and visit his wayward daughter.
Where did Dad and Don get their info? Was there some demon network tied into the State of Texas’s marriage license database? I knew they’d find out. That was the point, after all. But it had been less than five minutes.
The phone kept ringing as my mind twirled and danced around the logistics of what was happening.
“You better answer it.”
“Don’t want to.”
Michael stopped, hands on his hips. “Remember that thing I said about taking a step you couldn’t take back? This was why. No last minute cold feet.”
Where did that term come from? Cold feet my ass. My feet were burning hot and itching to take off. Except, oh yeah, I really sucked at running. Also, even if I was good at running, I couldn’t do it for forever.
My phone, however, could ring forever. And that’s what it was going to do if I didn’t pick it up.
I was maybe halfway to convincing myself to answer it, when the ringing stopped. A reprieve? Had my prayers been answered? Was Dad just going to let this one go?
“Hello?” Michael said, speaking into the phone the sneaky leprechaun sneak had grabbed from my purse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Annabeth, it’s your father.” Michael handed me the phone.
A stream of loud, agitated words came from the phone, and I could feel my blood pressure rising.
Michael whispered in my left ear, “You’ve got this.”
Which gave me goosebumps and made my girly parts consider melting. As hot as he was, I still couldn’t believe he’d managed to distract me—but something about his voice that close to my ear and his breath on my cheek…just yum. My Michael buzz was fading fast, and my father was still screaming into the phone. Now or never.
I lifted the phone to my other ear. In a calm tone—I was absolutely channeling my inner Zen, something I didn’t know existed—I said, “Hi, Dad.” And ignoring the yelling, in a very quiet voice, I said, “If you don’t use a normal speaking voice, I’m hanging up.”
Wow. That was a first for me. I avoided (the last eight years or so) or I yelled (my teenage self.) I didn’t really do calm demands.
The silence was a little terrifying.
As I waited for the yelling to start, my shoulders inched up closer to my ears. But then Michael winked at me, and I let out the breath I’d been holding and relaxed.
The silence stretched out until sweat started to roll down my face. Michael pointed to his car, and I nodded. Standing in the Texas sun wasn’t going to make this call any more pleasant.
In the calmest voice I’d ever heard emerge from my father’s lips, he said, “You bronzed Don.”
“I did.” I nodded my thanks to Michael for opening the car door and slid inside. “He was threatening me.”
“He was retrieving you.”
“I don’t wish to be retrieved, Father.” My pulse pounded. I was no wayward child to be fetched and then scolded. I did a quick survey of the car. No smoke—nice.
Another stretch of silence.
Dad could stew all he wanted about Don. Any normal human being would have gotten the hint: A marriage license without his name on it meant, I didn’t want to marry him. But if Dad was right and Don was in fact retrieving me, he’d missed that message entirely. Don couldn’t imagine that a woman wouldn’t want to marry his glorious and powerful self. His tiny brain simply couldn’t grasp the concept. If I could strangle them both and leave their corpses in the sun to rot—
Michael pried my fingers loose from his armrest. He kissed the back of my hand. Not a particularly sexual thing, more a gesture of comfort—but that kiss still traveled straight to my nether regions…which reminded me that I was panty-less…which made me squirm in my seat.
“Who’s the boy?” The question broke such a lengthy silence that I’d almost forgotten my father was on the phone.
Who was I kidding? I’d totally forgotten. I was wrapped up in my own steamy little fantasy involving Michael and all of his gloriously gorgeous parts. Parts I wanted to stay intact, so I said, “None of your—”
“Michael Kelly, Patrick and Brigid Kelly’s son.” Michael had leaned close enough to the phone that he was both crowding my personal space and sure to have been heard by my father. Then he mouthed, “He already knows.”
We couldn’t know that. Okay, it was highly likely. I shoved him back into his seat with a glare. But then I felt the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart under my fingers. And I might have let my fingers play…just a little.
Until I was rudely interrupted by my father. That man ruined all the good things. His voice turned chilly. “What are you doing with Michael Kelly?”
And now was the time. Now was when I said, “I don’t want to marry Don. I never wanted to marry Don. I’m dumping Don.” Except I couldn’t do it. The words stuck in my throat. I tried. I really did. I opened my mouth, and I wanted to say it. It’s not like it would even be news to him, because so far as he was concerned, I was engaged to another man. But I couldn’t actually say the words.
Michael took the phone from my nerveless fingers. “She’ll have to call you back.”
And then he hung up.
On my dad.
The devil.
He handed me the phone like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just pissed off the king of hell. Like he hadn’t just made my life a living nightmare. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Maybe next time you can—”
I slugged him.
He rubbed his arm and eyed me warily. “Has anyone ever told you that violence isn’t the best way to resolve conflict?”
“He’s going to kill you.” And then I bawled.
Not because I thought Michael was in imminent danger. There might even be a chance he was right and I was wrong. Maybe my dad was this fair-minded guy Michael had mentioned early. Maybe he saved the yelling and the screaming for family. Honestly, it’s not like Dad had ever physically harmed me, and Michael was much more able to deal with bluster than I was.
And I wasn’t crying because I thought I’d have to marry Don. That ship had sailed. No way was I ever agreeing to marry that pompous womanizer. If he didn’t get it, even after being bronzed, then I’d get up the courage to stand in front of him and say, “no.” Maybe I’d even practice a few times on his big, bull-headed, bronzed self. Not like he could talk back.
No, I was bawling because talking to my dad stressed me out that much. He made me feel fragile—and volatile.
“Hanky?” Michael held out a pristine white handkerchief. Even through my tear-blurred eyes, I could see the little green clover leaves in one corner.
I took it, rubbing a finger over the embroidery.
“Livy. She does have a sense of humor, it’s just frequently crushed in the stampede of her brothers’ idiotic adventures.”
I wiped my eyes, thankful for the lack of make-up that I’d bemoaned earlier that morning. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be fine, by the way. Just in case that’s what has you, uh, you know.”
“Bawling like an emotional basket case? No, that’s not it. But if you get yourself beheaded, I’ll never forgive you.” I realized how stupid that sounded, but I’m sure he got the point.
“Beheadings are Don’s thing, so I think I’m safe on that front. So tell me why you’re crying.”
I was about to tell him where he could go, when I realized that it was a very reasonable question, considering the circumstances. And—this was the kicker—I didn’t want to answer him because saying it aloud made it more real. I dabbed at my nose, considering my options.
“Blow your nose. You know you want to.”
N
ot what had been swirling around in my head. “What?”
“Why are women so weird about silly things like blowing their nose?”
I was not weird. I gave him a narrow-eyed look then very deliberately blew my nose on his pretty hanky.
“See, isn’t that better?”
And I cracked a smile, which I’m sure was the point. “Yes, but you’re not getting this back until it’s been laundered.”
Michael shrugged. “So why the tears?”
I scanned the square, looking for some hint that he’d popped in and was going to make my life even worse, but there was no sign of him. I scanned the immediate area around the car. Then opened up the door and looked again. “And not even a smoldering bush. That’s good news.”
The driver’s door closed, and Michael joined me on the passenger side of the car. He leaned back against the car and crossed his arms. “You thought you’d set the place on fire.”
“Yeah, it’s happened.”
“So, why does speaking on the phone with your dad make you cry?”
“Persistent aren’t you?” I asked, eyeing his casual posture. He was still leaned back against the car. But then my gaze met his, and I realized that he was really worried. About me.
I closed the gap between us, and I kissed him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I had to perch on my tip toes to reach him, but not for long. As soon as our lips touched, his hands moved to my hips and then lower. He lifted me, pulling me closer as he explored my mouth. He nipped my lower lip, and I thought I might melt into one big puddle.
Except he held me close and wouldn’t let me slip away. He explored my mouth, and I explored the muscles along his back and shoulders. He nipped at my neck, and I ran my hands through his thick hair. He kissed his way across my collar bone—
A sharp wolf whistle brought me back to the present, and apparently Michael, too, because he loosened his hold on me.
I slid down his body, landing lightly on the balls of my bare feet. Somewhere in the midst of our public display of affection, I’d lost my flip-flops.
As I toed the ground looking for my shoes, I kept my eyes on Michael. I expected an apology or some glib comment. But his eyes met mine, and didn’t say anything. He kissed me again. Less nibbling and fondling, this kiss was fierce and brief.
No, no apology there.
He opened the car door for me. “Home? I think we have a little planning to do.”
I nodded and climbed in. But my agreement was a general sort of, yes, let’s do something besides stare awkwardly at each other now that we’ve tangled tongues and groped publicly. I hadn’t a clue what type of planning he meant.
When we were well on our way to the cabin and Michael hadn’t expounded upon these plans we’d be concocting, I asked. “What planning are we doing?”
He looked at me with a curious expression. “That’s one thing we—you—need to decide.”
I nodded as if I had a clue what he meant. Perhaps I’d just wait and see. I pulled my phone out to make sure it was still off and fiddled with the case as I considered taking the battery out. But it really didn’t matter. Battery or no battery, Dad could always call. Although the man wasn’t omniscient, so he’d gotten his information from someone. “We knew Don and Dad would have some kind of connection to the state database, like a magical crawler. Creepy in its big brotherness and how fast it worked, but predictable. But how in the world did Dad know about Don being bronzed?”
“Twitter is my best guess.” Michael gestured to a barbeque place we were passing. “Brisket for lunch?”
“I’m sorry—what? Um, sure, brisket is good. But what’s with Twitter?”
“Twitter? It’s a social media platform that limits—”
“I know what Twitter is! Are you telling me that my dad is on Twitter?” The king of hell…on Twitter. That just seemed bizarre.
Michael gave me a smile that held a pinch of pity and a lot of sympathy. “Your dad is huge on Twitter.” Then he rubbed his neck, looking embarrassed. “So is mine.”
“Your dad posted the picture of bronzed Don.” I rolled my eyes. “Of course he did.”
“It’s a great picture, you have to admit.” He gave our order, double-checking that a brisket sandwich was still my favorite (it was), then while we waited for our food pulled up his dad’s Twitter account. He scrolled a bit then blacked out the screen with a tap.
“That bad?”
“If you call a pissing match bad.”
Hand extended, I said, “Hand it over.”
“You’re sure?” But the look on my face must have been enough because he unlocked his phone and handed it to me. Then he passed our bag of food over and headed home.
For the five minutes remaining, I scrolled through light-hearted insults, embarrassing pictures, some relatively good-natured ribbing, and then it started to get personal. I couldn’t believe that Patrick Kelly and my dad had a similar sense of humor, but it seemed they did.
Don seemed to be fair game, but when Patrick accused Dad of poor judgment in the fathering department, Dad got nasty.
“What’s so funny?” Michael asked when I laughed.
“My dad and his claims of parenting.”
He pulled into his driveway without comment. Only after we’d traversed the quarter mile to the cabin and parked did he speak. “You wanna tell me what’s going on between you and your dad?”
The smell of brisket filled the car, and I latched onto the excuse. “We should eat first, before it gets cold.”
“Says the girl with the fingertips of fire.” But then he let it go, and we had a nice meal. A little early for lunch, but I was hungry and the brisket was amazing.
Michael grinned as I scarfed down the last bit of meat. “He cooks it for something like twelve hours. Or maybe it’s seventeen. I can’t remember.”
“It’s amazing.”
Michael watched me as I wiped my fingers. And he waited. How had I missed that he was so patient? He’d been more than reasonably patient. And I was feeling good and mellow after consuming half a pound of meat.
“Fine. You know my dad pushes my buttons.”
“Right.” And still he just waited.
“My mom raised me. By herself, no support from him, financial or otherwise.”
Now that sparked a reaction. Michael frowned. “That’s odd. More than odd, it’s quite surprising.” I raised an eyebrow and Michael flashed me a sympathetic look. “Your dad has a certain reputation. It’s well-known that he has quite a few children, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard that he was shy about claiming or supporting them.”
“Dad says he didn’t know about me until I was older, around twelve or thirteen, because that’s when my magic showed up and I, correspondingly, popped up on his radar.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Maybe? Actually, no. You saw how hooked into the system he and Don are. Bureaucracy is not confounding to demons. It’s barely even a challenge.” Twelve going on thirteen had been a terrible time for me. My mom was great, but she was a single working mom with no magic. When weird things started to happen, she didn’t really know what to do. “I didn’t meet him until I turned eighteen. Having someone around with a magical clue when I was thirteen, just discovering I had magic and flipping out, would have been nice. ”
“I really don’t understand.” Michael leaned back in the kitchen chair and crossed his arms. “He admits that he let five years go by before he tried to make contact.”
“Michael, you don’t understand because you have two decent parents who love you.”
“I’m just telling you that something is off about that. Have you talked to your mom about any of this?”
My throat tightened. “You think she wouldn’t let him see me. Michael, the man is the king of hell. If he’d wanted to see his kid, I think he could make that happen.”
He lifted his hands, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced or conceding my point.
“So we meet a few
times. It doesn’t go all that well, because he’s basically a stranger and he immediately starts telling me how I should live my life. We yell a lot, I burned a few choice mementos—which is why we started to meet on neutral ground—and I start to avoid him except for a few visits a year. When I can’t avoid him, I avoid the arguments. And here we are today.”
“So your engagement to Don was just another argument avoided?”
“Sort of.” Michael’s eyes narrowed and I added, “Mostly.”
He crossed his arms.
“Right.” I glared at him. “Maybe I was worried that increasing his power base might be more important to him than me being happy in my marriage. Maybe I was too scared to say no to the engagement and find out I was right. Maybe.”
At least I didn’t cry. No girl liked to say out loud that she wasn’t sure if her dad loved her, and I’d managed it without a tear.
“So you’re not sure about your dad’s feelings and you hate arguing, so it seems like a simple solution: just stay silent and let things fall where they may.”
I frowned at him. “It sounds a little terrible the way you say it, but it was actually working out just fine until…” I shrugged.
“Until it wasn’t.” Michael sighed.
“Also, it’s not just that I hate arguing, it’s the accidental fires. Before my run-ins with Dad, I had a few things happen as a kid, hard to explain things. I burned my friend’s library book to a crisp, for one.“
It sounded a little funny. It hadn’t been.
“How old were you the last time something like that happened? Eighteen, nineteen?” Michael asked. I thought back and nodded. Sounded right. And he said, “Who has complete control at that age? Especially with all those hormones running around.”
When he said hormones, I tried not to blush thinking about our hormones run amok. Blushing was for sissy girls, virgins, and my dear friend Livy. I did not blush.
Michael grinned that all-male, cat-ate-the-canary grin that men get when they think they’ve rocked your world.
“Don’t start.” I pointed a finger at him.
He shrugged and just grinned all the wider. “You want me to throw your clothes in the dryer. You know, so you’re not running around bare-bottomed all day.”