by Rayna Vause
Chris leaned against the wall of the elevator as the weight of the day all but made his knees buckle. “God, Jack. I don’t know how much more I can handle.”
Jack wrapped Chris in his arms. “I’m here, you know. You can lean on me.”
“Everyone already does that. I don’t want to be another burden you have to carry.”
“Never. You’re capable of standing on your own two feet. I know that. But we can lean on each other now.” The elevator doors slid open.
Chris leaned against Jack as, arms around each other’s waists, they made their way down the hall to Jack’s suite. They headed straight for the kitchen. Chris leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. An image of Angelica lying in that hospital bed projected in his mind. She lay so pale and still, swathed in bandages. The slow, steady beep of the heart monitor the only indication that she lived.
His mother popped into his head as well, coughing, annoyed to be back in the hospital. A smile tugged at his mouth. Only his mother could make him laugh in the face of illness.
He opened his eyes, trying to chase away the memories, and found a bottle of water being held out to him.
“I could use a beer.”
“You get water. Especially with the pain meds in you.”
“It’s ibuprofen, not narcotics.” Still, he accepted the drink, twisted off the top, and took a long pull.
Setting it aside, he turned to Jack, only to be yanked into Jack’s strong embrace.
Extrasensual Perception
By Rayna Vause
If a stalker doesn’t kill them, the heat between them might.
Christopher Vincent is desperate enough for a job that he accepts an offer to entertain as a psychic in a friend’s nightclub. Jackson Whitman, the club’s other owner, is less then thrilled by the new act. To him, psychics are ridiculous and a liability. But when they come face-to-face, attraction flares to life between them.
Someone is watching Jack and Chris from the shadows. What starts as a series of creepy encounters leads to deadly attacks.
Jack and Chris must set aside their differences and work together to survive a homicidal stalker. But can they survive their explosive connection?
Table of Contents
Sneak Peek
Blurb
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Coming in February 2017
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Copyright
To Elle Brownlee for helping me whip this book into shape. To my amazing friends who support me through every book. And, as always, to my mom.
Chapter One
PAIN tore through him as the impact of the bullet knocked him backward. He went flying, not airborne long enough to draw a full breath, let alone scream, before he plunged into frigid water. Agony radiated through him in waves as displaced water encased him in its murky depths. He fought his way to the surface as best he could with only arm. The other arm hung useless at his side as a cloud of blood formed around him.
His sodden clothes weighed him down, his jacket tangled around him, and his lungs burned, demanding oxygen. He kicked toward the surface but something held him down. His heart pounded; the rush of his blood surging through his body roared in his ears. He caught sight of a net clinging to his leg, keeping him prisoner in the cold and muddy harbor waters. He clawed at the net, trying to get free as he resisted the urge to inhale, but he couldn’t hold out for much longer. Black spots bloomed before his eyes, obscuring his vision.
Strength seeped from muscles that continued to wrestle with the tangled web of netting. He caught one last glimpse of light dancing on the surface of the water before the world went dark.
“MORNING, Mama.” Chris slipped into the room carrying his mother’s daily tea, toast, and fruit. He placed them on a bedside table, then went to adjust the blinds, allowing a sliver of daylight into the small bedroom. No surprise that when he turned to face her, he found her struggling to push herself up in the bed.
“Mama.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me help you.” He lifted her slight weight so that she sat upright, back supported by the mound of pillows she slept on.
She frowned as she cussed and slapped at her weakened arm.
“Useless thing,” she grumbled, furrowing her brow as she adjusted the oversized navy blue T-shirt she called her favorite nightgown. Then she smoothed back her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair with her strong hand.
Chris pulled over the tall, wooden chair from the corner of the room, smoothed her covers, and sat. He laid a hand on his mother’s knee.
“Give it time. The doctors and therapists say you’re improving. Getting a little stronger every day.”
“Bah. Charlatans, every one of them.”
Chris picked up the mug of tea he’d made in her cherished Lily Dale mug and handed it to her. “Drink, take your medicine. The aide will be here in a bit to help you wash and dress, then take you to therapy. I’m going to head over to the shop and start getting things packed. We’ve only got thirty days to get everything out before the end of the lease.”
His mother’s head bowed and her shoulders drooped. She looked sad, pale, fragile. A series of words he never would have associated with his powerhouse of a mother. She’d always been so full of confidence and sass. After losing her husband to a tragic car wreck, she’d picked herself up, stood tall, and raised her son alone while making a success of an unconventional business. Ever since she’d had her stroke, some of that fire had extinguished. The exhaustion of fighting to get back to her former healthy self took its toll. New lines marred her face, and the salt started to overtake the pepper of her once jet-black hair.
“I know how much the store means to you, Ma, but we just can’t afford the rent anymore. When you’re well again, we’ll find you a different place to do your tarot readings. I’m willing to bet that all of your old clients will flock to you wherever you set up shop.” In truth she should retire, but that word would never cross his lips again. He suppressed a shudder, recalling the look of death his mother had given him the first and last time he’d ever mentioned retirement.
She leveled narrowed eyes on him, lifting her mug to drink. “This is just the way things are now. You’re going to have to adapt.” He selected one of the myriad pill bottles, shook out a tablet, and handed it to her.
She scowled at him a moment longer, then sighed, accepted the pill, and swallowed it. She set the tea down and held out her hand to him. He took it and she gave him a warm squeeze. “You look tired, my baby. Didn’t you sleep well?”
Chris shook his head. “Dreams. Disturbing dreams.”
“There’s a lot of meaning in dreams, especially your dreams. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now, and please don’t read me. Let me sort this out on my own.” He released her hand and stood.
“I wouldn’t read you without your permission. You know that.” At his raised eyebrow she admitted, “Okay maybe I would, but I’ll respect your privacy. I suspect last night was a bad night for dreams. Not too many pleasant ones going around.”
“In other words I should expect to encounter a lot of cranky people today. Great. Something to look forward to. Eat your breakfast. I’ll bring you more if you’re still hungry.”
His mother picked up the bowl of fruit and cradled it in her lap. She lifted the fork already stabbed
into a piece of honeydew and inspected the slice of green melon, then returned it to the bowl with the clink of metal on ceramic.
“Christo, I need a favor.”
He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at her. Those four words never led to anything good.
“What?”
“I need you to go to the Whitman Hotel and see Angelica.”
“Why?” He continued to scowl at her, not liking the direction of this conversation at all.
“I need you to warn her, look after her. Something bad is coming, and she needs to stay alert and aware.”
“Ma, come on. If you want me to bug Angie in the middle of her preparations for the grand opening of her club, you need to give me something more concrete.”
“I don’t have specifics, Christo.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. He hated it when his mother had these cryptic visions. He hated the odd looks people gave her when she passed on her vague advice or warnings. If he were around, he’d get the looks of pity. So sorry that you’re strapped with a crazy mother.
“Why don’t I help you send her an e-mail later or leave her a voice mail? Right now, I really have to get going. We’ll reach out to her together later, okay?” He patted her knee. “I’m going to go finish getting dressed. Shout if you need me.” He rose, placed his chair back in the corner of the room, and started for the door, avoiding the irritated gaze burning into the back of his neck.
He and Angie Whitman had managed to become friends over the years that she’d been coming to his mother for readings, but he didn’t feel comfortable turning up on her doorstep with cryptic messages from his mother.
“No.” The ferocity of the word stopped him in his tracks. “Pay attention to me, Christo. This is important. You aren’t the only one with telling dreams. I need you to go to her, convince her. A call or an e-mail is too easy to brush off.”
He jammed a hand on his hip, dropped his head forward. “Warn her about what, Ma?”
“I just told you. Christo, you’re being purposefully obtuse.”
He snorted. “Yes, I am. I fully admit it. The psychic stuff is your thing, not mine. I don’t discuss that stuff with any of my friends.”
His mother pointed her finger at him and gave him the look. The same look she’d given him as a little boy. With a long-suffering sigh, he caved.
“Fine. What do you want me to tell her?”
“She needs to know that danger is coming. It’s closer than she thinks, and she needs to be careful.”
“So what you’re saying is you want me to make my friend paranoid?”
“No, not paranoid. I want her to be careful.”
“Yeah, but careful of what?”
“I don’t know, Christo. I just have a feeling.”
“Your feeling doesn’t exactly inspire the need for caution, Mama. More likely she’ll pat me on the head and sign me up for a psych eval. After all, as a friend, she’ll be concerned about my mental health.”
She whipped the fruit-capped fork at him. He dodged it, then glared at his mother.
“Feel better?”
“Christo.” She tipped her head back to rest against the headboard and held a hand out to him.
He crossed to her and interlocked his fingers with hers. “Ma, I love you. I do. And I hate to see you distressed. Please understand, you may do stuff like that on a regular basis because that’s part of who you are and what you do. But it’s a bit out of my comfort zone. You know this.”
This time she sighed. “I do, baby, but please. Just do this for me. Tell her what I said, and I won’t ask it of you again.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Okay. I won’t ask it of you again for the rest of the week. Knowing that my message has been passed on to her will help me sleep better at night.” She smiled up at him.
Chris shook his head. “Fine. I’ll go freak out my friend for you.”
“You’re my good boy.”
Chris rolled his eyes and started for the door.
“One last thing. She also needs to know that water is not her friend.”
Everything in Chris went still as cold flooded him. Memories of the frigid water and his burning lungs rushed to the fore, all but choking him. He stifled a shiver as he turned to face his mother.
“Do you mean she should be wary of a glass of water or something larger?”
“There is danger in the water. That is all I know right now.”
He took a few steps back toward the bed. “Come on, Ma. Give me something more. If my friend is at risk for drowning, I need to give her something that can help keep her safe.” He held his hand out in silent appeal.
“I’m sorry, Chris. I saw water. I felt pain and fear. My gift is still recovering from the damn stroke, just like my body.” She pounded her fist against the mattress.
Chris’s heart squeezed at the sight of her frustration with her condition. It broke his heart to see her—once vital and vibrant, now pale and delicate. His mother, the great Madam Melina.
He glanced at the framed marquee poster from her shop hanging on her bedroom wall. Hints of the exotic soothsayer still shone through every so often, and that gave him hope. Each day she moved further down the road to recovery. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for her weak hand, covering it with his.
“I know you’re fighting to get better, Mama. You’re getting stronger every day. Give it time.”
She knit her brows and pursed her lips until they were thin and bloodless. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. When she looked up again, she’d wiped all trace of the storm of emotions away. He leaned forward and rested his brow against hers. She reached up and cupped his face and smiled. After a long moment she pulled back a bit and kissed his cheek. Then she sat back.
“Hopefully events will become clearer in time, but I need her to be aware of the danger. I can’t wait for my dreams to offer more information. I won’t risk her getting hurt when I could have warned her. Go to her. Find a way to convince her.”
He rose from the bed and nodded. Satisfaction tugged at the corner of her mouth and glinted in her eyes. No matter how crazy the request or how vague the prediction, he’d pass on the information. Hell, he’d do most anything for this crazy, stubborn, wonderful woman. He also couldn’t ignore the similarities of his mother’s vision to his nightmare. He couldn’t risk a friend getting hurt because he preferred to ignore all things psychic.
“Okay. For you, I’ll go see Angie. Here’s hoping she believes me.” And please god don’t let me run into Jack.
CHRIS stood on the sidewalk staring up at the large multicolored neon sign mounted on the three-story building that housed Carnival W. Topiaries of various animals decorated the landscape in front of the building and actual carousel horses lined the main pathway. A fully functional Ferris wheel, or so he assumed, rose above it all. At night when all the lights are on, it must be a hell of a sight. At the moment, though, it looked empty and lifeless, locked away behind the bars of an ornate golden gate.
“How the hell am I supposed to get in there?” He’d tried Angelica’s cell number multiple times, and every time, he’d been diverted to a perky assistant who offered to take a message and assured him that Ms. Whitman would be in touch at her earliest convenience. Since leaving a message had already been deemed unacceptable, he did his best to sweet-talk the young lady into telling him Angie’s whereabouts. Next time he saw Angie, he’d tell her that she needed to give her admin a raise; breaking out of a maximum security prison would be easier than getting any information from her.
With the grand opening of her new club imminent, Chris took a chance and headed there. He’d been informed she couldn’t be disturbed. However, if he didn’t disturb her, he’d never hear the end of it from his mother, so dammit, he had to get into that building. Twenty-nine years old and you’re still dancing to your mother’s tune. That’s just sad.
Just go knock on the damn door. They might let you in or they’ll ignore you co
mpletely. Only one way to find out. Blowing out a breath and rolling his shoulders, he’d started to cross the street when a white delivery truck followed by a sporty, black Mercedes turned down an alley adjacent to the club. He jogged over, hoping that, just maybe, he’d lucked out. A well-dressed woman slid from the car and immediately started giving instructions to the jumpsuit-clad workmen that climbed out of the van. Once finished, she marched into the club.
The crew unloaded all manner of bar supplies, from racks of glasses to cases of alcohol, and hauled them inside. Chris let the workers carry in their first load, gave it a moment, then rushed down the alley. He grabbed a brown box from the van and hoisted it onto his shoulders as he slipped into the club. He set his box down just inside the door and wandered deeper into the building.
An adult playground spread out before him, complete with a bar stretching along one wall and a huge dance floor and DJ area. Arcade games filled another corner of the room, and scattered throughout were dining and cocktail tables. There were concession stands for cotton candy, martinis, and popcorn.
“Only the rich and fancy would turn a carnival into a high-end nightclub. This place is so freaking awesome.”
He shook his head and wandered farther into the building, approaching a worker clad in a blue jumpsuit. “Hey, where can I find Ms. Whitman?”
“I think I saw her go up to her office.” The lanky man with the receding hairline pointed to a staircase in the back corner.
“Thanks.” Chris made his way over to the stairs. He paused at the bottom for a moment. Okay, let’s get this over with.
With each step toward the red door, knots formed in his stomach and his palms began to sweat. Each step brought him deep into the heart of Whitman territory, which meant that at any moment, he could run smack into Jack Whitman—the source of many foot-in-mouth incidents for Chris.