He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin)

by Susan Squires

  “Ow!” Dowser said, squinching up his face against the glare.

  “Sorry. Poor thing, you look awful.” He did. Scraped, his eye blackening, though the swelling was down from the ice. His lip was swollen and cracked and his body bruised.

  “You’re not so hot yourself,” he muttered.

  Probably true, even though she’d iced her cheek. She vowed not to look in the bathroom mirror anytime soon. “Can you eat?”

  He shook his head.

  “Sure you can,” she coaxed as she sat down on the bed and held his head up while she bunched up pillows under him. “I’ll feed you.” This close she was feeling things that she shouldn’t be feeling. Just here to help him detox, she reminded herself. That was it.

  He pulled at the ropes and grunted in frustration. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

  She realized there was no way she could actually force him to eat. That made her chew her lip. Her eyes strayed over his body, the way his ribs jutted out, the flat belly, the ... the really big bulge in his running shorts? She took in a little breath. Was he erect?

  How ... interesting.

  “Not used to not getting your way?” he sneered.

  She gave him a wry smile. “Actually, I probably would get my way too much for my own good, except for my family. Nothing like a big family for keeping your ego in check.” She glanced again to his loins. Yes, indeedy. Maybe he liked stone-cold bitches.

  She thought he might say something, but he clamped his mouth shut and turned his head.

  “Your call. I’ll be glad to eat your share.”

  She took the plate to the table, but sat where she could keep an eye on him while she ate.

  “I have to piss,” he growled as she finished. He apparently wasn’t happy about that.

  Drew swallowed. Here it was. She’d prepared, but still. “Okay, hold on.” She got the bedpan and took it over to him. This was going to be a trial.

  He must have seen the look in her eyes. “In over your head?”

  “Not at all,” she said with more assurance than she felt.

  “Better get to it, or I’ll piss all over the bed.”

  Drew bit her lip. She positioned the bedpan between his legs and pulled his shorts down. She meant to just be casual about it. But the touch of her knuckles on the flesh at his hips hit her like a baseball bat. His hips jerked like he’d been shocked. She looked away, knowing she’d stare if given the chance. She pulled them down over his butt in the back.

  And then she ran into trouble. Spread-eagled like that, she couldn’t pull his shorts down far enough for him to use the bedpan. Panic set in. What would she do? She hopped up from the bed. And then she couldn’t help but stare. The man was well built all over, for sure. It was so wrong to enjoy the view. He started to get an erection again. Guiltily, she glanced up to his face, expecting to see some smirk. But the look on his face was so intense, so disconcerting, she didn’t know what to make of it.

  She pulled her gaze away from him entirely so she could think. Pee into a towel or something? Aw, darn. She might as well lose the shorts. She went to her suitcase and pulled out her makeup kit. It would have to be nail scissors. She held them up triumphantly and turned back to him. His eyes got wider.

  “Just going to cut these off,” she mumbled. “No other way.”

  She tried hard for single-minded focus as she cut the stretched elastic over his thighs. Every touch of his flesh was driving her to distraction. But she got them off. “Lift your butt,” she said hoarsely, and shoved the bedpan under him.

  “Better stand back if you don’t want to get sprayed,” he said. His voice was as hoarse as hers had been.

  “Oh, hell,” she swore under her breath. She folded the ripped shorts into a pad and pressed it over his penis to hold it down while she averted her eyes. His urine hit the metal of the bedpan with a hollow thrumming. He sighed in relief. When the noise stopped, she pulled the bedpan out from under him and took it quickly into the bathroom. She found herself gasping for breath. How often did men have to pee? She might not survive much more of that. She dumped the contents of the pan into the toilet and rinsed it in the tub, taking her time until she’d regained a little of her composure.

  By the time she got out he’d fallen asleep again, propped up in the bed. His snoring was a soft burr. His scarred chest rose and fell. His erection had mercifully eased. But that didn’t lessen the attraction of looking at him. Better do something about that. Plus, the evening had gotten cooler. He might catch a chill. She pulled out one of the thin blankets from the chest and drew it over him. Then she did the dishes and put the rest of the food in the fridge. Now she could curl up on the lumpy little love seat, wrapped in a blanket, with her book. She was reading a biography of Coco Chanel, a real treat. But tonight, she couldn’t seem to focus on it.

  What the hell had she gotten herself into? Where was the cool sophisticate, always in control of every social situation? Here she was in a shack in the middle of nowhere in a place so hot and sticky it felt like she might be able to sweat to death, with a man she had tied up.

  Why? Because she wanted to see if her harebrained faith in her destiny could possibly have been so wrong it had led her across a continent to find a man who could not possibly be her destiny. Wasn’t it his prerogative to be an alcoholic if he wanted to be one?

  She didn’t even like him, let alone love him like her mother loved her father at first sight. All she felt for Dowser was a very unsophisticated lust. Drew had lost herself somewhere, maybe when she realized Roger had duped her.

  Her thoughts wandered....

  She was wakened by coughing sounds. She was up off the love seat instantly, before she had her senses fully about her. She was in a strange room and in the circle of light over by the bed, Dowser was heaving his guts out all over himself and the bed.

  She grabbed one of the three-pack of dishtowels she’d bought and her salad bowl from the dish drainer and hurried over to the bed. No time to be squeamish. She held his head in the crook of one arm as he bent over the bowl she held in the other hand and started another round of vomiting.

  When at last he lay back, exhausted, she wiped his mouth and blotted the cold sweat from his forehead and around his neck before she began cleaning him up. “Sorry, so sorry,” she soothed. “I should have given you the anti-nausea stuff earlier.” She did the best she could, then hopped up and left the water in the bathroom sink running over the dishtowel while she hurried back out with the medicine, grabbing a spoon along the way and peering to read the directions.

  “Okay, two tablespoons,” she murmured to herself. He’d better not be stubborn about it. She held his head and he tried to turn away from her. “Please,” she said quietly. “Please?” That got his attention and wonder of wonders, he opened his mouth. She could feel him shaking now. Poor guy. He swallowed both tablespoons. That should help.

  She got up again. “You’re not going to believe this, but a sip or two of vodka will help, they say.” She came back and held the pint to his lips, being careful not to tip it too much.

  He lunged after it, his muscled arms straining. “No, no,” he muttered, as she tipped it back and took it away. “Need the whole thing.”

  “Can’t,” she said, feeling miserable as she stepped back. “Can’t.”

  “Bitch!” he shouted. And then he spat at her. It missed her. But she felt the gesture just as though she’d taken it right in the face. She held her lips between her teeth and her eyes filled.

  “Yeah. You’re probably right about that.” If what she’d read was true, his nerves now felt like they were on fire. He was shaking his head back and forth and straining at the ropes.

  Hope to God they hold.

  She actually saw the sips of vodka she’d given him take effect. He quieted, and took a deep breath. He blinked at her, but the hatred in his eyes didn’t abate one bit.

  Great. She was looking for her one true love, and the only candidate she could find was a drunk who
hated her. And why wouldn’t he?

  *****

  Damn her! Dowser tried to swallow. His mouth was dry and the vodka hadn’t helped with that. The pain was a little less though, and he wasn’t shaking quite so much. She looked hurt. Good. He wished he could hurt her like he was hurting. His stomach started to cramp. Fuck. He was going to humiliate himself again.

  *****

  How long had he been shaking and vomiting? His body was screaming at him. He couldn’t think anymore. She kept giving him that stuff for nausea, and he was so desperate he kept drinking it, but it was a fucking waste of time. What he needed was about a quart of liquor. And she wouldn’t give it to him. Teased him with a couple of sips every few hours. He’d shouted at her. Called her every name in the book, just like he had those Taliban devils. He’d pulled at the ropes until his muscles trembled, just like back then. He thought he had made her cry. But she wouldn’t give him the Goddamned booze. Only that would stop the pain.

  “Only thing....” he murmured. He wanted to curl into a ball and he couldn’t even do that. She just sat on the love seat with her arms hugged around her waist, her eyes big in the semidarkness. The Taliban had nearly broken him. He wouldn’t let a stupid girl do the same.

  “Give me the fucking booze,” he screamed suddenly, making her flinch. He bunched his muscles and pulled at the ropes with everything he had, then backed up the few inches she’d allowed him and hit the limit again and again. Almost as good as pounding his head against the wall. After a while, he got weaker. He let his arms fall to the bed and the waves of pain wash through his body. Couldn’t fight it. Didn’t even want to fight it. That was what was different from Afghanistan. He deserved pain. All the pain there was. He had let Alice die.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  He gasped. There she was, looking like she floated just beyond a smoky glass. Her soft blond hair waved down past her shoulders. Peaceful eternity shone from her blue eyes.

  “Alice,” he whispered. The smile felt strange on his lips. He hadn’t smiled in a long time. “It’s ... it’s so good to see you.” The longing that shot through him was pain of its own.

  “You haven’t dreamed about me in a while,” she said softly, smiling.

  “Too painful.” He felt his heart falter even now.

  “Someday it won’t be. That’s why you drink, isn’t it? So you won’t dream about me?”

  “No. No.” He couldn’t let her think that, even though it was true, in a way. “I ... I can’t live without you, Alice. I’m not strong enough.”

  “You are the strongest man I’ve ever known, Michael.”

  “Alice, I’m sorry.” He felt his eyes fill.

  “For what, my love? For the years of love we shared?”

  “No.” He hung his head. “No. Because I’m not who you think I am.” But that wasn’t all. He had to say the rest. “I’m sorry for killing you.”

  “Cancer killed me, Michael. You just stopped the pain. I asked you to, remember?”

  “I should have refused. I should have found a way....”

  “To beat it?” The smile she gave was so understanding, so forgiving. Just what Alice had always been—angelic. “No one could prevent me from dying, Michael. You gave me peace.”

  “I didn’t want to, Alice,” he whispered. “I just wanted to go back to the way we were.”

  “The world doesn’t move backward. You have to go on.”

  He shook his head. His throat was too full to speak.

  “For me, Michael. Go on, for me, without the booze.” She seemed to be receding, though he couldn’t see her stepping back. But the smoky glass was thickening between them.

  “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “Alice….”

  “And be nice to the girl, Michael. She’s trying to help.”

  She was gone. The smoky glass obscured her entirely. He put his hand out, sobbing. But all he felt was the cold glass.

  *****

  Drew thought the four-by-four posts would give out before he did, in spite of the huge bolts that held them together, but somehow they held. Her nerves were a wreck. It was horrible to watch his suffering. It took all she had to keep from getting the vodka and letting him glug down the whole thing. He burned with fever, alternating with cold sweats. He shook and moaned, and went into rages unexpectedly. How much longer could this last? It was almost dawn. Already a faint gray light was seeping in through the trees.

  She should never have taken it on herself to try to “fix” him. Her mother had warned her. It was hubris, plain and simple. And naïveté. This guy couldn’t be fixed. And why had she tried? Because she wanted him sober. She was grasping at straws to prove that her destiny had carried her to the one who could be her match down to the level of their DNA. The vision in the birdbath had been a hallucination, no more. She was worse than naïve. She was psychotic.

  And he was suffering for it. She should just take him in to the ER down on Stock Island, whether he wanted a doctor or not. But how could she? She was scared to let him go free.

  Bad as his rages were and the shaking and moaning, he wasn’t delirious. If he got that bad, she’d have to let him go and take her chances on landing in the hospital herself.

  Then he quieted. He stopped struggling against the ropes. He stopped screaming obscenities. He just went slack. Drew breathed a sigh of relief. He looked almost peaceful. Maybe it was over. It was actually faster than she’d thought.

  “Alice,” he whispered, with more longing in that one word than she’d ever heard before.

  Drew stopped breathing. Just how naïve she was flashed before her. This guy wasn’t her destiny. He was not only drunk, and Italian, and not Merlin’s descendent, he was in love with somebody else. Because that was love in his voice if she’d ever heard love.

  “I’m sorry I killed you,” he muttered.

  Drew put her hand over her mouth. He had killed a girl? A girl he loved?

  More muttering she couldn’t understand. Then he said, “Alice, don’t go,” very clearly. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His shoulders shook a little.

  Then his eyes blinked open. He started to shake a little again.

  Drew gasped and realized she’d been holding her breath. He turned to look at her, and his eyes held such sadness that her own eyes filled.

  “You c-can untie me now. I won’t hurt you. Scout’s honor. I’ll d-do the detox.”

  “How do I know that?” she managed. Where was the rage? What had changed?

  “B-because Alice wants me to, and I’d d-do anything for her.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Drew got up and began pacing. That sounded insane. He’d been talking to a dead woman. And now Drew should believe that it was okay to untie him because the dead woman—a woman he’d just admitted killing—wanted him to play nice? She believed he was capable of killing. She’d never been exposed to rage like she’d just seen. If he’d killed his lover, that explained the pain in his eyes and the drinking. He deserved the pain. So, no. Not untying him.

  “Can’t do that, Dowser.”

  He managed to nod. “I get that.” His voice was hoarse, his cheeks still wet with tears. He lay there, breathing raggedly. Drew sank onto the sagging love seat, feeling helpless. Should she go to the police and tell them Dowser had confessed to murdering someone named Alice? He was a puzzle. Did murderers come to the rescue of damsels in distress? That’s what he’d done for Drew. Maybe he was just addicted to violence and didn’t care about the reason for the bar fight. She should definitely go to the police.

  But she couldn’t seem to make herself move to go get her car keys.

  For the next hour, he struggled with the demon torturing his body, pulling on the ropes only when the cramps hit him. No swearing, no rages. It was almost full daylight. And day wasn’t going to bring Drew any answers. This guy was either a hero for rescuing her from the Four Horsemen back at O’Toole’s, or so depraved he had murdered his wife. He couldn’t be both. And she didn’t know which he was.

 
“Can I maybe have some water?” he croaked, startling her.

  “Oh, my gosh.” She hopped up. Even murderers didn’t deserve to die of thirst. She’d tied him up and then didn’t take care of him.

  She grabbed a wet cloth from the kitchen and hurried back with water in a Barney the Dinosaur glass that had once held jelly. His lips were dry and chapped. She sat beside him and held up his head while he drank. Whatever he was, she was so attracted to him that holding his head like this was pure torture. She laid him back down and got some moisturizing lip cream from her purse. “This will help,” she said as she turned his head and applied the ointment. His lips were cracked and dry to the touch, still swollen where the split had scabbed over, but she could imagine them soft. Kissable. Don’t think about that. His nose was still crooked. But he was a handsome devil anyway. In spite of his black eye.

  “Thank you,” he said, as she headed back to the kitchen. She placed one plastic bag of ice on his eye and pulled up the blanket to put the other his knee. Then she took the damp dishtowel and wiped his forehead, his cheeks, his neck. He was sweating and trembling but he said only, “That feels good. Thanks.”

  That made her feel horrible. She should have been wiping down his body with cool cloths all night. She’d been intimidated by his invective. Drew Tremaine, who’d always thought she was equal to anything. He’d suffered for her cowardice. Okay. Then she owed him. Whether he’d killed his wife or not. She pulled down the thin blanket to just below his waist and, holding her breath, wiped his chest and belly too. She could ignore the throb between her legs.

  “Sorry, but I’ve gotta piss.”

  Oh, no. Could she go through that again? She’d not only want to stare, but she’d want to touch too. No doubt about it.

  He must have seen her look of dismay. “Look,” he said, teeth chattering, “just untie one hand and get me the bedpan. I’ll take care of myself.”

  But with one hand untied, he could unbuckle the other hand. Couldn’t do that. If he was a murderer, she’d end up dead just like Alice. But how would she ever be able to let him go, even when he was sober? That left the police as her only choice. She could abandon him and make an anonymous call from a pay phone to tell the police he was tied up here.