by Eli Constant
Back in the apartment, I leave Kyle lounging on my sofa. He doesn’t look quite as at ease as Liam had, but I like seeing him there better. I’d invited Kyle; that made a huge difference.
Ten minutes later, after a fast shower, I’m dressed again—this time in dark wash trouser jeans, a navy blue peplum top and an oversized gold cross on a thick chain that once belonged to grandmother. The tiny gold studs in my ears and petite watch around my right wrist top it all off. I don’t bother to dry my hair, which would take forever, so it’s pulled up in a loose bun, tendrils of hair curling down around my face. The mirror tells me I look nice. The extra weight around my stomach and thighs wants to remind me that I’m still a long way off from looking my best.
“You clean up nice.” Kyle is appraising me, his eyes roving from my floor to my ceiling and maybe staying a tad too long on the middle regions.
“A woman’s more than her looks you know,” I say it flippantly, as if I wasn’t just stood in front of the mirror thinking the same thing.
“Especially if she can cook.”
I move my body so that I can look at him straight in the face. There’s that mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He’s joking.
“Barefoot and pregnant is your preference then?” I turn away and busy myself about making fresh coffee. I use the percolator this time, too lazy to clean the grounds and leftover liquid out of the small Mr. Coffee I’d had on timer this morning.
“Isn’t it every man’s preference?” he quips. I hear him stand up, his footfalls bringing him closer to the kitchen.
“And every woman’s preference would be to marry a guy with a high paying job, good body, and endless stamina. Yet, the world isn’t perfect.” I put the top on the percolator, checking that everything’s aligned, and then I plug it in. It’s only seconds before the familiar sounds greet my ears and the delicious smell assaults my nose.
“My mom used to use one of those, until it caught on fire. Damn thing burned right up the cord and into the outlet. We had to have an electrician out afterwards.” Kyle is leaning against the countertop, more at ease there than he had been on the sofa. He looks... a bit delicious stood in my kitchen.
“What’s your mom like?” Pulling two coffee mugs down from the hooks hanging below my upper cabinets, I check the level on the percolator. It’s nearly finished.
“Smart. Beautiful. Best person I know.”
“Sounds out of Jim’s league.”
“She’s definitely out of Dad’s league.”
Our laughter fills the apartment.
“You take cream and sugar?”
“Just sugar.”
“Perfect, because I don’t have cream.”
I fill our mugs and slide one across the counter to Kyle. He grins when he sees what’s written on it. “If you want sunshine in the morning, my face is not the place to look.” Dean had given it to me two Christmases ago. The funny thing is, I actually am a morning person. This is what happens when you don’t let people close enough to get to know you.
“So you’re not a morning person then?” He takes the sugar dispenser without asking and turns it over the cup, letting a waterfall of white crystals cascade into the dark liquid. I grab him a spoon from the drawer under the coffee pot and set it on the counter within his reach.
“I am actually. A friend gave it to me.” Sure. A friend.
“Not a very close friend, if they don’t know you like mornings.”
“An employee then. It was nice of him. He didn’t have to buy me anything.”
“Are you... close with your employees?” The way Kyle asked, I knew what he was getting at.
“Not close enough to date.”
Kyle blushes, a bit embarrassed that I’ve read between the lines so easily. “I won’t insult your intelligence by acting like that’s not what I meant.”
“Oh, so I’m allowed to be intelligent? I thought you’d just let me putter about making coffee and sandwiches without a thought in my head.”
He looks confused a moment, trying to decide if I’m being bitchy or not. I grin, to banish his confusion.
“I thought you were serious for a moment.”
“I’ve never been a very good actress, so you must be incredibly gullible.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s already cooling and I hate that. No matter how freshly ground or expensive the roast, coffee tastes like crap once it’s cooled off. I don’t know why people have such hard-ons for iced beverages and those milkshakes parading around like real caffeine. They’re not, people. They’re literally ice, cream, and flavoring. Okay, maybe they have a teensy shot of espresso in them. But honestly, if that’s coffee, then I’m the Queen of Sheba.
He doesn’t respond to my gullible poke. “So, it looks like I’ll be sticking around for a while and helping Dad at the bar. He says you come in from time to time asking questions. He’s thinking I shouldn’t be involved in that sort of thing. He wants you to back off all together really. Not sure why. He loves when you come to the bar, pulling him into this case and that. He gets a thrill out of being an informant, I think. No idea why he’d change his tune now.”
I had an idea.
“Maybe the heart attack shook him up. Doesn’t want to invite trouble another way.”
“Guess that could be it. But listen. I’m not sixteen. Dad doesn’t control what I do or who I help. If you need anything, I’m here.”
“That’s nice, Kyle, but you don’t know me well enough to offer your unconditional help. It’s not that easy.”
“It is for me.” He shrugs, takes another deep drink of coffee. I squirm a little on the inside, irrationally wanting to become a mug and have his lips against me. I wasn’t used to having my pheromones do my thinking for me. I felt a little odd, something different nudging about in my body. “I’ve got a good sense about people. If they’re good or not. You’re good.”
If only he knew.
“Again, you don’t know me well enough to make that call.” I am hiding behind my mug, my hands holding it up to my face. Kyle opens his mouth to protest, but I hold my hand up to stop him. “Get to know me better and if you still feel that way in the morning, I can recommend a good psychiatrist.”
Kyle snorts into his coffee, a strange look on his face. “I wouldn’t have to go very far to take a long, hard look at my mental health.”
“Oh? Have a few psych books handy at home?”
“A few. I’m a Psychologist. I’ve just left a joint practice in Goose Creek. I went to Clemson for my Undergrad and Stanford for my Masters.”
“But... you’re my age.”
“I graduated high school early.”
“Very early,” I breathe out, suddenly feeling very, very ‘less than’. “So you have your doctorate then?”
“No. My Master’s with several certifications. Cognitive behavior, clinical mental health, group psychotherapy and music therapy.” Kyle pushes a loose curl behind his ear. The action reveals a small tattoo beginning right below the earlobe and disappearing towards his neck, following the line of his hair.
“Why’d you leave the practice?” I want to reach out, lift his hair and turn his head, so that I can see what the tattoo is.
“I got really, really tired of dealing with perfect families with petty problems, couples who should never have gotten married, couples who shouldn’t be getting divorced, children suffering from living in unhappy homes. I couldn’t deal. I got into marriage and family therapy because of my background, I guess, but then I quickly found out that it was a touchy subject for me. I couldn’t be objective enough.”
“What will you do now?” My coffee has gone fully cold. I push the mug away from me so that I don’t accidently take another drink, forgetting that it’s now a vomit-worthy icy sludge.
“Help my Dad at the bar, like I said. Just until I can find something else. I contacted a few of the local schools. One of them might have an opening for a counselor towards the end of the semester.”
“You like kids?”
&n
bsp; “Love them. As long as I don’t deal with their parents too much.” Kyle lifts his wrist and checks his black and orange watch. “Damn, got to go. They’re releasing Dad at eleven and I told him I’d be there to drive him home. He was pushing for a cab, but I told him how ridiculous that was when he had his son at his beck and call.”
“He’s a stubborn one.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Without asking, Kyle takes my mug and his and walks them to the sink to rinse out. For a moment, only the sound of water pouring from the faucet fills the air. When he’s finished, he leaves the cups in the basin and dries his hands on his pants. I like that. I can’t imagine Liam-perfect-clothes-Drake drying his hands on anything save for an embroidered lace hanky scented with rose oil.
I follow Kyle downstairs. He hovers in the doorway for a minute. The growing silence feels awkward. “Well, tell Jim I said hi. And thank you, so much, for returning my umbrella.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for the coffee.” He turns away and then back again. “Hey, you don’t want to come along, do you? Maybe you can help me get to the bottom of why Dad’s acting weird.”
I don’t have to get to the bottom of it, I know why. And just like that, I realize I’m standing in front of Jim’s son. Jim, the man who could decide my date with the executioner at any moment. “Oh, I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got a client coming in an hour or so to go over arrangements.” I say the words fast, ready for him to leave... even though, part of me, very much wants him to stay. There you go, Tori. Booty before brains. Do you want to die?
“Right. I guess when you don’t have a job, you forget that other people work during the week,” Kyle says, a small laugh following his last word.
“Not just the week for me.” I smile. “Death is a 7-day-a-week occupation.”
“That’s got to be hard.”
“I still find lots of free time,” I say it without thinking. If I had thought about it, maybe I would have realized the door I was opening.
“Maybe you’ll find some free time Saturday night then”
I’m dense, so it takes me a second to realize he’s asking me out. When I do realize it, I can feel heat spreading upwards from my neck to my cheeks. It burns there. I hate when I blush. It doesn’t just affect my cheeks, but my arms and legs and every part else of me.
I want to say yes. So badly. But I can’t. He’s Jim’s son. He’s human. I could be dead before our date.
“I don’t know. Really, it’s not a good idea. I mean Jim—”
Kyle interrupts me. “My dad has nothing to do with this.” His smile could light up midnight. “It’s you and me. And I want to take you out, Victoria Cage.”
“Kyle,” I stammer.
“I’ll pick you up Saturday. Your place.” He winks.
“Sunday would be better.” I blurt out, giving in and trying to do the math. It’s Wednesday. Mr. Grayson wanted to do everything quick and cleanly for Mrs. Grayson, but he also wanted to give his out of town children time to arrive. That would likely put us at Saturday. Funerals were all different, but also all the same. I could nearly predict what a person would want for their loved one, simply by asking a few questions. Of course, now I also had the Tacklon funeral on Monday. And then there was Jim. Jim and possible death.
“Sunday then. You don’t strike me as a conventional date kind of girl, so how about I pick you up here around four and I’ll come up with something clever.”
“Okay. I will have some work to do in the morning, so four is great.” I want to say more, but I’m worried that if I do, I’ll say something really, really stupid. I don’t date much. I don’t have any friends, unless you count Terrance and Jim. Have I said how socially awkward I am?
Kyle walks around my Bronco and next thing I know, he’s rolling out Jim’s motorcycle from where it’s been hidden. It hadn’t even dawned on me that he didn’t have a car parked out front. “Does Jim know you’re riding that thing?”
“Nope,” he grins and it instinctively makes me smile back.
“Piece of advice—clean it up afterwards, park it wherever the hell he had it, and never tell him,” I joke as he climbs on to the bike, his thighs gripping it tightly between them. God what I would do to be that bike right now.
“That serious huh?” He’s taken a helmet off the handlebars where it was hanging and pushed it onto his head.
“Yes. That serious. You may be his son, but that thing is his baby.”
“Don’t want to give the old man another heart attack.” He smiles, boyish and bright and framed by the black walls of the helmet. God, he’s kissable. Liam might have the sexy, mysterious, probably-dangerous thing going on, but Kyle was all warmth and wonderfulness. Seeing him there, I could totally get over the fact that his dad might want me dead. “See you Sunday, Victoria.”
“Call me Tori!” I shout the words over the rumble of the Harley coming to life. It’s loud and vibrating the hall floor.
I don’t know if Kyle hears me, but his smile is still there, like his teeth are beckoning me forward and tempting me to press my lips against his.
Just like Liam, I don’t know Kyle that well but, also like Liam, I feel drawn to Kyle in a way that makes no sense. Instant attraction. There’s a difference of course. Liam brings out the lust in me. Kyle brings out a softer sort of passion, a slow burn.
It’s like he is a pot of water, warming slowly on the stove, and I am the frog that will slide happily into the wetness. And I’ll stay there as it gets hotter and hotter. I’ll stay there forever until death takes me. Still though... there’s something to be said for uninhibited lust. There’s something appealing about jumping into already-boiling water.
The old girl downstairs quivers a little at my thoughts. I tell her to simmer down. My body is really starting to rebel against this abstinence thing I have going on. Even before Liam and Kyle waltzed into my life, I’d had dating on the mind. Well, less dating and more... flat-out screwing. My heart stood in the way though. Maybe not for much longer if things progressed with one of the two men that currently raced about my mind like runners looking for the finish line.
And the finish line was in my pants. I wouldn’t mind at all if desires of the flesh and all that jazz won out over heart.
Chapter Nineteen.
My cell rings around noon as I’m finishing up with Mr. Grayson.
He’s chosen calla lilies for his wife’s funeral. The music is somber, yet lovely. Her favorite color was a pale shade of orange, lighter than tangerine, but darker than cantaloupe. I wasn’t sure I could find the right tablecloth to set beneath her coffin. I always try to do that- put the deceased’s favorite color, if they had one, in various places around the reception hall and service room.
The casket he chose is a pale rose with dark gold metalwork. The inner lining is champagne, tufted and plush. I don’t know why the living are so very concerned with the comfort of the dead. But we are. I mean, I can understand why I give pause to being considerate towards a body, towards the vessel that once held the spirit, but the rest of humanity... Those without my gifts? They don’t have the constant reminders that I do about the afterlife. So why do they care if their deceased loved ones have a soft place to rest?
It was just a body to them. Or it should be.
I ignore the call, accompany Mr. Grayson to the front door, and assure him that everything will be ready for Saturday. He won’t have to worry about a thing now—aside from saying his farewells. “I know what it’s like to say goodbye to your partner.” I tell him, placing a hand gently on his back. When he cries, I find my own eyes tearing up.
I’m a damn necromancer and even I have trouble dealing with this particular part of the cycle of life.
When the door is shut and business is done, I fish my phone out of my trouser pocket and read the missed call. Terrance. He won’t be happy that I’ve ignored him, but he’ll live. I am not a cop. I’m not his employee. Still though, I feel responsible to him. That’s my gift talking, convi
ncing me that because I am what I am, then I must do whatever I can to make the world better.
Of course, sometimes it urges me in the other direction. I wouldn’t be the first necromancer that turned a bad way. Not all of us during The Rising were innocent and victim to our own power.
I hit a little icon and the phone dials the missed number. Terrance picks up on the second ring. That’s not a good thing. It means he needs me enough to wait by the phone. If I hadn’t called him back quickly, I’m sure he’d have called me again, incessantly, until he finally got my voice on the other end of the line.
“Tori, why didn’t you pick up?”
I’m surprised to hear a note of panic in Terrance’s voice. “I was with a client. You know—my actual job. What’s wrong? You don’t sound right.”
“Tori, listen, we released Don, hoping that Thorn would make contact. It’s the only way we could think to snag the son of a bitch.” Terrance is explaining, his voice a little too shallow for comfort.
“Did it work?” A knot is growing in my stomach. Fear. Fear feels almost like dying to a necromancer. It sets our gift on edge, makes us want to reach out to something alive and suck that life inwards until we feel safe again.
“Not even close. Jesus, Tori. One minute, we were following Don, the next minute he was gone. An hour later, one of our boys found him mutilated. Blood fucking everywhere, Tori.”
“Oh... God.” I will the fear to go away. Terrance is just freaked about the case. This isn’t about me. “That’s terrible, but what does that have to do with me?” I’m confused. I’ve helped on cases before, a lot of people know that. It’s not a secret exactly. More fodder for the community to think of me as ‘that freak that knows shit she shouldn’t.’
“There was a note pinned to Don’s coat, Tori.” Terrance paused. I wanted to tell him to cut the drama and get to the point. “Back off.”
“That seems pretty generic.” The fear is sliding away now. I pick up my pen to finish my notes for the Grayson funeral. “Am I in some sort of trouble, Terrance?”