Blazed (4 page)

"Sort of. I found something. Independent author right?" He threw a book down on the desk in front of me and somehow Esme's and Mrs Reynolds' silence thickened. 

I swallowed hard at the sight of
 
Syncretic Sciences
 staring up at me. 
Of all the books in all the bookshops... 
"That's right."

"Did this Emmeline White do anything else?"

"Uh... no. Just that novel and we have the only two copies that got printed."

"Huh..." I kept my eyes fixed on his hands sinuously stroking the spine of the book and felt the movement all over my body. He leaned closer towards me, forcing me instinctively back like a repelling magnet. "Shame really. Did she come to you to sell them?"

"Oh yes," Mrs Reynolds chipped in, granting me a precious second to reassemble my brain cells, "that's how most of our independent works make it here."

"Oh, so would you have means of contacting her? I'd like to petition for her to expand her bibliography."

"No need," the last ounce of blood in my body pooled in my face when she laughed and nodded in my direction, "why go through the desk monkeys when you can go straight to head office?"

Meekly, I lifted my head to meet his scorching hot gaze and forced an almost apologetic smile. He hummed inquisitively on an exhale. "Emmeline White, eh?" His voice caressed my name with aggressive sexuality. The fantasy of him growling it while he was balls deep inside me made my mouth dry. "That's much better than what I've been calling you in my head." He smirked at my raised eyebrow and clarified
— "
Lisbeth.
"

"
The Girl Who Played With Fire
. Very clever." I pulled my eyes away from his, needing to dispel the sunspots he left in my field of vision. "And you are?"

"Blaze."
 

I immediately looked back at him and scowled. Giving a name like that seemed like a poor joke at my expense. "Are you trying to be funny?" For a moment it didn't look like he understood, but then the dazzling smile crept back onto his face. His laugh was satiny soft and not even slightly patronising like it should have been. He quickly gave off the impression that he'd never lied once in his life because his face could soften even the most brutal truths.

"I wasn't, but if it happened that way, that's fine by me. Tell me, Emmeline," the way he said my name again like we were familiar made my stomach knot, "this is 
Double Booked
, right? If there are only two copies of a graphic novel and you sell just one, what happens to the other?"

"Um, well," coughing away the lump in my throat, I turned away to find something arbitrary to distract me from his intense green eyes, "usually, we take the spare off the shelf and contact the supplier or author to order more. If there are no more prints, it usually ends up in the book graveyard next door."

He craned his neck to look at the adjacent unit. "The charity shop?"

"Sure. 'One man's trash is another man's treasure' and all that jazz."
 

He seemed to bristle at the word 'trash' and stalked back off beyond the shelves without a word, leaving the three of us to admire him from behind. That view was almost as impressive as the front from the shoulders down, and for the life of me, I couldn't get past the primal urge to strip him bare and stare at him until the image of his naked body was permanently imprinted on my mind. Now there was a sight I wouldn't forget in a hurry.
 

Too quickly, he came back and tossed the other copy of
 
Syncretic Sciences
 down, free hand digging into his back pocket for his wallet. "I can find a happy home for this," he promised, "what the proverbs don't tell you is what happens after that trash becomes treasure. Other people see it as treasure too. Just look at any aspect of modern economy for proof. All it takes is one man's idea and another man's faith." Recognising Henry in that statement, I faltered just slightly in my reply. He was the ideas man, and there was no doubting that his unfathomable charisma was how he'd conned— I mean 
convinced
, people to put their belief in him. But I refused to believe that I was capable of anything like that just by paying for a couple of prints of my doodles.

"I expect my fan club to converge every Friday and send me love notes every month."
 

"Well today is Friday. No time like the present. This place closes at six right? So I'll head off now to get a start on those love notes and swing round to collect you later." My forehead knit into a frown while I scoured his comment for sarcasm. There was none. Even his seraphic face looked deathly serious
— about fetching me from work at least, possibly not the love notes.

"Isn't there a pick up line missing from this conversation?" He ducked down to my eye level, scrutinising me as I rang the books through the till and stuffed them into a paper bag.

"You don't look like you have a desire to be wined and dined before you're sixty-nined..."

"I don't." My obsession with Hunter went deep enough to earn me a reputation as a heart-breaker for anyone who wanted anything more long term than the time it took to find a vacant bed or sofa, take care of business and see me safely into a taxi. If a sordid screw was what he was after, he'd have done better propositioning me outright. I did, however, feel my pulse quicken at the dark promise in his observation.

"Well then." He straightened, scooping his purchase up from the desk. "I'll see you at six."

ESME quickly pounced on the computer after we'd watched him leave in an awed muteness you'd probably only see on a playground. There was a sudden and instant gush of nightmarish teenage gossip between her and Mrs Reynolds the moment he slipped out of sight, followed by a rapid fire line of questioning I had few answers for.

"Do you think he knows who you are? He would have mentioned if he'd seen you pictured with your dad right? Oh, but you never wear the specs when you're out drinking, so maybe it didn't click. Oh wow, can you imagine the press coverage of you two?"

"Hold up." I raised a hand to silence the onslaught. "Are you thinking he's pursuing me to score a rich chick?"

"Oh please," Esme scoffed and navigated to a search engine over my shoulder, fingers flying so fast they were almost a blur, "Blaze has been in everything. Modelling for major labels, acting, he was the Monday's Miracle front-man before they got big, and..." a video pinged up on the screen and blared The Bystander Effect's cover of
 
Weak
 into the shop. One of my favourites.

"He was the anti-CJ. He's been in Amelia Marsh's mouth." I had more than a little girl crush on the woman who was more tattooed leg than body.

"Uh huh. That hot tamale who just 'didn't' ask you out is already a big deal. And... well," she sighed down at me ruefully, "as gorgeous and smoking hot as he is, he doesn't date. He's never pictured with female company despite obviously constantly beating them off with a big stick, and barely associates with anyone attached to a vagina. God knows I've tried."

"Gay?" The question had to be asked.
 

"Implicitly no. He's been asked in numerous interviews and nothing he says is anything other than the veritable truth." I felt slightly smug that I'd correctly identified that trait, but then frowned at the information Esme was laying in front of me in the medium of news clippings and online gossip blogs.

"So what the hell was 
that
?"

"For both our sakes, I'm hoping it was pillow talk." She grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard enough to blanch the skin in my fingers. "Please, Miss Untouchable, tap that. I need to live vicariously through you."

I DIDN’T BELIEVE for a moment that 'Blaze'— God, even his name did wicked things to me and described his visceral effect on me perfectly— would turn up on that threshold at six o'clock. Articles of how untouchable he was had been pushed under my nose all day and I couldn't come up with a single good reason why I might be the woman he broke a pattern for. The more super-talented and gorgeous I found out he was, the more convinced I became that our verbal spar had been nothing but bravado. Even if he did secretly know which family I was really a part of, he had to be worth a lot of money himself. If he wasn't after the millions I refused to touch, what the hell did he stand to gain?

I pushed the thought of him to the back of my mind with copious amounts of coffee and random reads from the
 
Double Booked
 science-fiction shelves, and eventually Esme and Mrs Reynolds forgot about him too. The afternoon passed in what was essentially an audio-described flashback for Mrs Reynolds' benefit; Esme recalling the tales of her dire childhood to explain exactly why she was seeking asylum with us. At times it looked like they might both cry, so totally engrossed in the woe, and these were the times I dozed covertly, having heard the montage of memories often enough to no longer empathise. 

My head and elbow leaned against the window, cooling the throb of both the hangover and the burn enough for me to feel drowsy. On my lap laid a battered old sketchbook full of the more decorative pieces that had been too detailed for my graphic novel.
 
God
, at least one person was going to read that book and have a damned good laugh. Of all the graphic novels in this shop, and we had a pretty extensive collection, why did he have to pick mine? 

I was toying with the idea of him using the other copy for toilet paper when a peculiar little bug of a maroon car pulled up to the kerb outside the shop and idled, engine still running but no signs of life inside. The windows were tinted enough to reveal that the lone occupant was male but little else.
 

"Looks like your sexy visitor came back after all," Mrs Reynolds quipped, pulling my attention away from the window long enough for the driver to step out onto the street and lean up against the side of the vehicle, casual as anything.
 

Once the disbelief melted away, horror struck me. Turning to Esme, I opened my mouth to insist that I'd see her home safe before I even entertained putting my safety in the hands, and car, of the man standing outside.
 

"If you blow him off, I will kill you. I know where you sleep," she muttered, staring lustfully through the window. "But if you're not at the bar by nine to gossip, I'll send out a search party."

"Thanks," I said wistfully, wrinkling my nose at the spectacle outside, "I appreciate it."

The minute the clock ticked around to the hour, Blaze was on that threshold looking divine and almost hopeful. He'd shaved and styled his hair back, looking more like the hot stud I'd seen at the bar and less like the ruffled bad boy I'd seen in the shop earlier that day. I couldn't possibly decide which side of him I preferred because both were equally as delicious.

He greeted me with a purr and took my sketchbook from my hand. "Ready to go?"

"Almost, I just
—" Esme appeared with my bag and draped it over my shoulder, discernibly whimpering with need for the demigod. "Okay, so I guess I'm ready." With a smile, Blaze lead me out to the path and paused at the passenger door, pulling it open for me to climb in. "Seriously?"

"You don't like my city car?"

I scoffed scornfully, the unwillingly well groomed feline in me unleashing fully sharpened claws. "That's not a car. It's a Cygnet." My form had graced the back seat of many fine vehicles over the past twenty-two years, and this boxcar didn't make the grade.

"It's an Aston Martin," he objected.

"It's a gremlin car." Shuddering, I resigned myself to my fate and stepped past the open door to get it, flinching when he slammed it behind me.

Climbing into the driver's seat, he started the engine before I had chance to fasten the seatbelt. "Do you have something better than this tucked away?" I bit my lip. I'd never confess to anyone that I had an untouched cobalt blue Bentley hidden away in a private garage. It was another token of Henry's 'affection' that I refused to touch. "Don't worry, I don't fill her up after midnight, so she won't mutate and eat you."

"Unless 'she' secretly transforms into 
Optimus Prime
 in the dead of night, I'm withholding any hope that this thing won't put me in a coffin." He stopped to look at me and laughed before pulling out into the dense city traffic, tutting at my white knuckle grip on the seat either side of my legs. 

"So how's the elbow?"

"Fine, just stiff." A blatant and pitiful lie. The amount of analgesics pumping around my system might have just been the reason why I could string coherent sentences together around him, but there was still a searing pain in my elbow every time I moved. Luckily, I think I cried so much over my teenage years that my tear ducts were paralysed through over use.

"You need an aloe vera plant," he mused, tossing an arm around my headrest to bridge the gap between our seats. I wanted to scream at him to keep both hands on the steering wheel but fear for my life kept me quiet. "Don't worry, I checked our route and there are no open flames."

"Our route?" There was a glint of mischief in his eye that he didn't put words to. I shuffled uncomfortably, hands moving from the seat to my bag where I had a better grip on something— anything— to steady my nerves. "So you don't hang out with women." Shrugging apologetically, I tried to not get preoccupied with the way his eyes darkened like something bothered him.