After I got out of the shower, I patted myself dry with one of my threadbare towels. Then I slipped quickly into my heavy flannel bathrobe with a shiver—now the cold bathroom was damp and cold. I was so tired, but I hate going to bed with a wet head; so I picked up my blow-dryer and turned it on. My senses welcomed its soothing heat and prosaic noise, but I still felt a chill running all the way through me. After a few minutes, I realized I was clenching my jaw so tightly that it hurt. My jangled nerves were screaming for release. So, while I continued drying my hair, I half-heartedly did some exercises to relax my jaw and neck.
I almost became a homicide statistic tonight.
My face in the mirror was pale and tired, but otherwise normal. I didn’t look like someone who’d nearly had her head blown off a little while ago . . . I wondered why almost being shot by a panicky criminal was still freaking me out, whereas I was already starting to recover from confronting a solstice demon tonight.
Preparation, I supposed. I had gone to Fenster’s expecting to confront a solstice demon and its demented acolyte, so I’d been ready for that. Yes, it was terrifying; but I had braced myself for mystical Evil. However, it had never occurred to me that someone was going to pull out a gun and point it at my head.
Bastard.
I remembered the murderous intent on Rick’s face as he threatened to kill me, remembered what it was like to be held hostage at gunpoint by someone I had liked and worked with . . .
My arm started shaking, making the dryer waver erratically. I tried to hold it steady, but the shaking just got worse. So I turned off the dryer, which suddenly felt very heavy, and set it down. My hair was still a little damp, but it would do for tonight.
I braced my hands against the bathroom sink and took slow, deep, rhythmic breaths, trying to calm down and steady my nerves.
The door buzzer rang. I jumped and gave a little shriek.
I pressed a shaking hand against my heart, which pounded in startled reaction to the jarring noise of the buzzer. I was panting a little.
Jesus, pull yourself together, Esther.
Then another chill swept through me as I realized it was after two o’clock in the morning. Who the hell would be at my door now?
This couldn’t be good.
I stepped out of the bathroom and stood there uncertainly, staring at my front door, breathing hard with mounting anxiety as my heart continued pounding.
I reminded myself that everyone who had tried to kill me tonight was either in police custody or back in hell now—and solstice demons probably didn’t use doorbells, anyhow.
So who was it? Who would come to my apartment in the middle of the night?
I flinched when the buzzer rang again.
Then I regained enough self-command to realize that the easiest way to find out who was downstairs would be to ask. I crossed the floor to the front door and pressed the intercom button, wondering if Max had decided to come back for some reason.
“Who is it?” I asked anxiously.
There was a moment of crackling static. Then: “It’s me, Esther. Did I wake you?”
“Lopez?” I blurted in surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to be—I don’t know—locking people up?”
“I’ve done that. Now I have to figure out exactly what to say in my report.” He sounded tired and cranky. “Let me in. We need to talk.”
That sounded ominous.
“Now?” I considered insisting that I was too tired and we should do this some other time.
“Yes. And if you’re thinking of putting me off, forget it. That’s why I didn’t call first,” he said tersely. “Let me in.”
“Um . . .”
“Now, Esther.” Okay, very cranky.
I sighed and buzzed him into the building. After the jolt of adrenaline the buzzer had just delivered, I probably wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for ages, anyhow. So if Lopez was determined to have it out, then I might as well get this over with now, rather than postpone the inevitable.
As I opened my front door and listened to him trudging up the stairs to this floor, I wearily ran lines in my head for the scene we were about to play. I would tell him that Lucky, Max, and I had gone to the store to prevent a solstice demon from entering this dimension. Lopez would urge me to seek psychiatric help and to submit to drug testing. He might also vow never to come anywhere near me again; this last bit would be subject to improvisation, depending on how combative he was feeling. Considering the late hour, though, I thought he might just wind up retreating quietly with a headache rather than trying to decide tonight what to do about our . . . let’s call it friendship.
In any case, regardless of what note his visit might end on, I was so sure of how the central portion of this conversation would go that, by the time Lopez got to my threshold, I felt as if we had already talked.
Maybe he felt that way, too; instead of bursting into a torrent of questions and criticism the moment he saw me, he came to an abrupt halt when he reached my doorway and just stood there, staring at me in silence.
I stared back, not at all eager be the one to start the argument.
I realized it must still be snowing outside, since there was a faint white dusting of snowflakes on his wool coat. A few melting droplets sparkled in his black hair and clung to his dark lashes. He was breathing a little fast from the climb up the stairs. And now that he stood on my threshold, looking at me without speaking . . . his breathing quickened instead of slowing down.
Our gazes locked, and I stopped thinking about what we were going to say.
He could have died tonight, I thought, my heart thudding heavily inside my chest as I stared at him.
His dark expression faded, and he looked slightly dazed, almost surprised as he gazed at me—as if he were seeing me for the first time and hadn’t expected what he found.
I suddenly thought of the first time he had seen me—the night we had met, months ago. He had come to investigate a strange incident (which soon turned out to be stranger than my wildest dreams) at the West Village theater where I was in the cast of Sorcerer! An overworked precinct detective, he had been professional, polite, and amused rather than annoyed by the colorful strangeness of our complaint—our leading lady seemed to have vanished during the show’s disappearing act. Despite my stunned confusion over the seemingly impossible disappearance, I had noticed Lopez that night. It wasn’t really because of his exotic good looks, though I certainly liked those; I was used to good-looking men, after all, since I worked in show business. He was what I noticed. This man. The same one I was noticing right now, standing there in my doorway, his chest rising and falling rapidly as our gazes remained locked.
I could have died tonight.
I’d been one of a dozen nymphs in the chorus of that ill-fated Off-Broadway musical, all of us half-naked and painted green from head to toe. Lopez spoke to me that night, but it was strictly professional. It never occurred to me that he’d noticed me, too, anonymously covered in body paint and glitter, as I was. But he had. Fate ensured that we met again, and I found out that he had noticed me through the costume and makeup . . . The way he was noticing me now, despite the pale and fatigued face I’d seen in my mirror moments ago and the frumpy bathrobe I wore.
We had always noticed each other. Despite everything. Ever since that first night.
We both could have died . . .
And, having just survived the worst Christmas Eve of my life, I suddenly felt the biggest crime of this whole hellacious holiday would be for us to waste this moment the way we had wasted too many others.
He’s alive. And so am I.
And he was here. Now. With me.
Suddenly all I could think about was how much I wanted to celebrate being alive and together right now. How much I wanted him. How much I had always wanted him, right from the start.
My lips parted and I drew breath to say something, but I couldn’t think of any words. I could only think about the way he was looking at me now, the way this man could make me f
eel—even when I was bruised, exhausted, and wearing a drab flannel robe.
Lopez shook his head, as if to stop me from speaking. Then, in a burst of motion, he crossed the threshold, kicked the door shut behind him, and hauled me roughly into his arms.
His mouth was hot, his breath warm and sweet, his skin cold. I melted into his fierce kisses, clinging to him, suddenly so certain of what I wanted—what I needed.
I sank heavily against him, my arms embracing him possessively, my legs quivering and wobbly. He staggered backward and leaned against the door through which he had just come, his lips moist and hungry against my forehead, my cheek, my neck. He tangled his hands in my hair to hold my head still for his plundering kisses while I fumbled at the buttons of his coat, my hands clumsy and impatient. He wouldn’t take his mouth from mine long enough to let me breathe. I felt dizzy from lack of air, and I didn’t care. I went on drowning in his kisses, feasting on him . . . Until my fumbling and tugging made him laugh a little, and he pulled away enough to help me get his coat off, inefficiently shrugging out of it in fits and starts between warm nuzzling and hot kisses.
I whimpered in frustration upon discovering how heavily clothed he was beneath his coat—a sweater, a shirt, an undershirt, trousers, belt, holster, gun . . . I didn’t think I could cope with all this in my fevered, trembling eagerness. Fortunately, though, he’d been undressing himself for years without my help, so we got most of it off pretty quickly. Shoes, belt, holstered gun, handcuffs, and other objects hit the floor around us, the thudding noises they made barely audible above our frantic breathing and the desperate little sounds we made.
He untied the belt of my heavy robe and slid it off my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, too. When he ran his hands over me, I gasped and gave a startled laugh because they were still cold. I let him use me to warm them up as I pressed myself against him, flesh to flesh, sighing at how good his naked skin felt all along my body.
Lopez scooped me up into his arms and carried me into the bedroom, where we tumbled onto the bed together and lost ourselves in passion, in hunger finally unleashed. In each other.
The soft light from the bedside lamp caressed his golden-dark skin and gleamed against his midnight-black hair. The dusting of hair on his chest tickled my breasts as his weight pressed me into the mattress. I had a moment of tense anxiety as I remembered that the last time he had embraced me in this bed (albeit on a different mattress), it had suddenly burst into flames. He felt my tension and went still, lifting his head to meet my eyes. I thought I could drown in the blue depths of that gaze, which was now simultaneously passionate, quizzical, and tender.
I relaxed as I recalled that on that incendiary night in summer, he had been conflicted and angry. Whereas tonight, he seemed absolutely sure of what he wanted. And I was sure, too.
My enthusiastic kiss answered his unspoken question, and he relaxed, too. We rolled over and over together, limbs entwined, exploring each other with rich, uninhibited delight. I had dreamed of him like this, had thought so many times about what it would be like to have him in my bed. Now that he was here, his rough tenderness, his boldly exploring mouth, and his shameless hands were turning my fantasies into ashes, consuming me in flames more intense than anything I had ever conjured in my imagination. I surrendered unconditionally to his heat, his warmth, his fire. We melded and melted into each other, our sighs and inarticulate sounds of pleasure floating around us. We writhed ecstatically together, clinging blindly to each other, consumed by this frantic inferno of desire until, at length, the explosion left us weak, trembling, and gasping for air.
* * *
After I got my breath back, which took a while, I was too sleepily content to feel like talking. I turned off the light and snuggled against Lopez in the cozy darkness, my head on his shoulder, and enjoyed the contrast between his warm, smooth skin and the cool air on my naked back. He stroked my hair, kissed my forehead, and twined his fingers with mine, apparently also content not to talk. When I finally got a little chilly, he helped me pull the covers up, and then we slept for a bit.
While it was still dark, he woke me up to make love again. It was slow and sultry this time—and so steamy I was sure that, for the next few days, I’d succumb to blushing every time I was in a public place and suddenly thought of tonight. He really wasn’t the altar boy he pretended to be.
When he was done with me, I fell asleep again almost immediately, limp with satisfied exhaustion. He was snuggled up against my back, his arms around me, his head nestled next to mine.
Dawn was creeping through the window blinds when I felt him ease away from me. The mattress shifted, and I realized he was getting out of bed. I assumed he was just going down the hall for a minute and would come right back to bed. But when he returned to the bedroom, I heard the crisp zip of his fly and the metallic click of his belt buckle, and I realized he was getting dressed.
I made an inarticulate sound of protest, without lifting my head or opening my eyes.
A moment later, I felt the mattress dip beneath his weight as he sat beside me. “Are you awake?” he whispered.
I made a negative sound.
Lopez leaned over to brush my hair away from my face and kiss my cheek. “Now are you awake?”
“No,” I grumbled.
I felt his puff of amusement against my skin before he kissed me again. “I have to go to work.”
That made me open my eyes. I squinted at him in the dim, gray light creeping through the blinds. “Now?”
He nodded.
“Oh.” I sighed in disappointment.
“Sorry.” He stroked my arm. “I’d rather stay here.”
“So stay,” I mumbled.
“Can’t,” he said with regret. “It’s Christmas.”
“Huh? Oh . . . right.” I’d forgotten. A lot had happened since yesterday, after all. I nodded. “Single guy, no kids. Your shift.”
“Uh-huh. I’m already late.” Lopez looked sleepy and sounded tired as he added, “And when your colleagues carry guns, you really don’t want to be the reason they missed Christmas morning with their kids.”
“But you were working all night!” When he laughed at that description of his nocturnal activities, I amended, “Well, until about two o’clock, anyhow. You deserve a break.”
“I do,” he agreed emphatically. “But that’s a card I can’t play on Christmas Day.”
I reached for his hand, wishing he could stay for a few more hours. “You’ve hardly slept,” I said with concern.
He grinned and squeezed my hand. “Believe me, last night was well worth the price I’m paying for it today.”
I smiled, too, and our eyes held for a long moment before he spoke again.
“Luckily, we’ve got lots of coffee at work.” He kissed me softly on the mouth, then rose from the bed. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you later.”
“Hmmm.” My lids felt heavy, but I kept my eyes open so I could watch him finish buttoning his shirt and then pull on his sweater. I liked seeing him getting dressed in my bedroom. I hoped I’d be seeing it often from now on. “What time do you get off work?”
“Six,” he said. “But then I’m going straight out to Nyack. I’m sorry. If it were any other night . . . But I promised my parents, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t go.”
“Ah. That whole . . . Christmas thing again,” I grumbled.
Oh, well, I’d see him when he got back.
In fact, I realized as I watched him straighten his sweater over his torso, I’d see all of him again. A little shiver of mingled pleasure and anticipation rippled through me as I remembered him frantically shedding his clothes last night and imagined him doing that again soon.
“Yeah, that Christmas thing.” Lopez looked amused as he tugged his cuffs down. “Think you can adjust to my strange gentile customs?”
“Hmph. Well, at least you were circumcised.”
He gave me a flirtatious look. “Oh, so you noticed?”
�
��Last night I was up close and personal with your . . . circumcisedness,” I pointed out.
“So you were,” he agreed with a grin.
“Though ‘last night’ was only a couple of hours ago,” I added sleepily, glancing at the bedside clock. “You’ve really got to go?”
“I’ve really got to go.” He glanced at the clock, too, and added with regret, “Right now.”
I sighed again, wishing he were still beside me in bed.
Lopez stood looking at me for a long moment, curled up beneath the covers with my eyes barely open. Then he made an impatient sound, crossed the room, and pulled me into his arms for a long, deep kiss that made my head spin. I clung to him dizzily as he murmured, “I’ll call you later.”
I nodded in response as I nuzzled his neck. When I tasted the smooth, golden skin of his throat, he made an involuntary little sound and his hands tightened on me.
“No, don’t,” he said, breathing faster. “I have to go.”
“Mmm?”
“Stop that,” he whispered.
“I can’t,” I whispered back.
He kissed me once more, his hot, leisurely mouth and stroking hands turning me into a quivering mass of pulsing desire . . . And then, with a heartfelt groan and a pained expression that made me feel smug about my charms, he left for work.
20
I slept very late, then lay lazily in bed for a long time after I awoke, smiling and daydreaming as I remembered everything about last night.
I pressed my face against his pillow and inhaled. It didn’t really smell like him; I supposed he hadn’t been there long enough for that. But I pretended it did, and I inhaled again, then laughed with mingled pleasure, excitement, and embarrassment.
Polterheist: An Esther Diamond Novel Page 26