Burn With Me (3 page)

Aziza had thought it was a prank too. Her oldest brother playing a joke on her because she’d said she never wanted to get married. Why would she? Why would any of them? Her parents had been the perfect example of how much pain loving someone could cause. “You’re exaggerating. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Hah!” Greg disagreed a little too vehemently. She had to smile. He was tipsy. The long plane ride had turned them both upside down for a day or so, making them easy drunks. “Here’s my friend,” he continued, pointing to her as if she were exhibit A, “who dressed like a tomboy from Alaska, even in the Texas heat mind you, and wasn’t even
allowed
to go on a date until she was eighteen, and you would think she was famous the way they followed her around.”

Aziza really hoped everyone in the pub couldn’t hear him. “Greg? I’m not kidding. Jedi dolls…that’s all I’m saying.”

“You were beside her all those years? All that time with her and you were never tempted? Are you blind?” The new guy again. Aziza frowned at him. What kind of question was that?

Greg was glaring too. “I’m
not
blind, but I was also never that stupid. I knew how much she hated the attention. And she suffered because of it.” He pressed his lips together, realizing—more than a little too late—that he’d said too much. He sent her an apologetic look. “Her friendship is too important to me.”

She suffered? She supposed it was true. She’d never had a female friend for more than a few weeks because, really, the proposal issue got old after a while, even for the most confident members of her sex. And most
men
had behaved like idiots around her until a few years ago. Not that she could have had that much of a social life, even if she‘d wanted to. Her brothers and Greg had been her only true touchstones.

Her brothers.

She set her glass down harder than she intended. “Wow, okay, we’re getting too serious here. Let’s just say my irresistible charm has thankfully worn away to a dull glow, and leave it at that. And those men got off lucky, because as everyone who knows me will tell you, I’m no picnic.”

The friendly older man beside them batted his eyelashes. “The glow’s not
that
worn and I’m not a fan of picnics anyway. I also don’t happen to be spoken for, in case you were wondering.”

She groaned while everyone shouted with cheers and laughter. “Don’t start, buddy. Speaking of glow, who wants another round? I’ll tell you all about the day I convinced Greg to bungee jump off the Navajo Bridge in Arizona. Now he turns green anytime someone mentions the Grand Canyon.”

Several people called out their assent and Penn groaned. “Another? I’m knackered. And too old for this. What am I saying?
They
are too old for this. This place is usually quiet as church. That girl is a bad influence.”

Greg chuckled. “Buck up, sexy. She’s just getting started.”

“Damn straight.” Aziza leaned back to refill their glasses, the bartender backing away with a forgiving smile as she spilled some on the floor. “Oops.”

She slid a few glasses down the bar to the others, jumping when a strong, male hand settled on her thigh. She looked over at Penn and Greg. They didn’t notice that the new arrival was copping a feel. She turned to look at him. He
was
pretty. Not in any definable way, but it was there. Too bad he was behaving like a real dick. “You’ll have to remove your hand if you want a drink, sir.”

She noticed his eyes change from hazel to a glowing emerald. Just for a moment. Just long enough for her to believe it was a trick of the light or a consequence of her spiked blood-alcohol level. “Don’t worry, Aziza. I don’t plan on proposing marriage.”

He didn’t remove his hand.

She leaned forward, close enough to whisper, “Good thing. If you break my streak, I’ll be grumpy and you won’t get a tasty beverage.”

He licked his lips, but she was drawn to look into his eyes again as he spoke. “I
am
thirsty. Still, I’d rather you showed me your tattoo. I’m fascinated. I wonder what kind of snake you chose to keep close to you. The harmless garden variety or something more—I believe the term you used was
badass
?” He paused and licked his lips again, as if savoring the word. “What do you say? We could always move this conversation to the back room if you’re shy. But you aren’t, are you? You don’t strike me as the type.”

She was in jeans or she would have shown everyone by now, she knew. But something about his words made her blush. He was a smooth talker. No accent at all that she could discern, which was strange in this place. But then so was his blatant sexual invitation. As a rule she loved a man who knew what he wanted, but something about
this one
was making her flutter. She never blushed and she certainly didn’t flutter. Not anymore. It was one of her rules. But she could hear something in his tone that made her forget those rules. A feeling that told her no matter what sexual delights she’d experienced before…he knew more.

Twice in one night, she shook her head at her unusual reaction. It must be the jet lag. First the glorious hunk of man from the Eye who couldn’t seem less interested, and now this one who hadn’t hesitated to come on fast and hard. It was throwing her off her game.

Why was she hesitating again? She imagined the brooding giant and heat pooled instantly between her thighs. She needed to let off some steam, so why not with this guy? With someone who actually wanted her? Here, in the back room of the pub, where anyone could walk in and be scandalized by her behavior.

It
would
be a new experience.

The outside door slammed open, startling Aziza and tearing her away from the hypnotic green gaze.

A pale, shaken man in a flannel shirt and recently patched-up pants ran a hand through his thin hair as he entered, car horns honking behind him, as if heralding his entrance. “I need a pint. Two nutters went and dove off a building. Landed in front of my truck and right on your bloody doorstep. I called it in, but I could sure use something to calm my nerves while I wait.”

Several pub patrons instantly rose and headed to the door to see for themselves. Aziza‘s stomach twisted into a painful knot, a distinct wave of nausea reflexively tightening her throat. “No.”

She slid down off the bar and moved toward the door instinctively, her heartbeat loud in her ears. She thought Greg might have grabbed her arm to hold her back, but she pulled away from the restraining hand, unable to stop herself from moving forward.

Images flashed in front of her eyes. Her mother, lying on the couch in the living room, her soft blue eyes open but sightless. Her oldest brother’s urn shining silver as the sunlight hit the mantel, along with the second urn that joined it not long after. The flag she’d received instead of Joseph’s body.

Death was following her.

She’d left her coat in the pub, she thought absently, wrapping her arms around herself as the air chilled her. As if she might split apart if she didn’t. She made her way around the men, most of whom had taken their hats off or bowed their heads in a sad, habitual form of respect at the view in front of them. Aziza reached the front of the circle of people and looked down.

She clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in her sound of distress. A man and woman lay dead on the narrow road, their eyes open, blood pooling like halos around their heads.

They were holding hands.

“A bit wonky, this,” a stranger muttered to someone beside her. “I’ve seen jumpers before. Usually make more of a mess. These two look like they just laid down and died.”

She winced at the lack of emotion in his voice, but his words made her look closer. Really look. He was right. They weren’t unrecognizable. Just the opposite. And their bodies weren’t bent at odd angles. They seemed…posed. Heads tilted toward each other as if in affection and hands clasped. The dead woman’s hair was the color of a blueberry milkshake, and in between their bodies, not smashed to pieces as it should have been after that kind of fall, was a phone with a picture of the two of them smiling on it. Of the two of them alive.

Aziza stumbled backward, bumping into the growing crowd as she looked at their faces again. “That’s not possible.”

“Aziza?” Greg was there, pulling her into his arms as if he could protect her from what she’d seen. “Oh,
Jesus Christ
, don’t look, honey. You shouldn’t even be out here.”

She was having a hard time breathing. “They were on the Ferris wheel. I saw them. We
just
saw them, Greg.”

“What? Are you sure? Everyone got off the ride so fast, maybe you didn’t get a good enough look.”

She shook her head and pulled out of his embrace, noticing a worried Penn standing behind him. “
You know
I’m sure. They took a picture of themselves with that phone before they got out. They kissed. I saw them. Didn’t you see them, Penn? They were happy. Why would they jump? Why?”

Her aunt shared a look with Greg. “I think we need to get you home, love. It’s been a long night and no one should have to see this, especially not—”

“Me?” Aziza knew she seemed a little hysterical. She felt a little hysterical. What were the odds of something like this? London was a big city. If the couple had some sort of suicide pact, why would they have chosen this spot? And why had they seemed so happy?

Greg must have found her coat because someone lifted her arms and tugged it over her shoulders. She slipped her hands into her pockets and felt it—the strange vial full of sand the color of a moonless night that she hadn’t been able to part with since its arrival.

It warmed her hand again, giving her comfort. “I’m fine. It’s horrible, but I’m fine. I just—I saw them a few hours ago. I’m not wrong.”

The crowd began to part again. “Clear out,” someone called. “Let them get to the bodies.”

Aziza glanced up and turned in the direction the first responders were arriving from. Something drew her gaze beyond the blinking lights, and she almost fell over when she saw a familiar figure.

“You?” The sexy giant who’d held open the door was standing on the corner, beyond the crowd. Still watching her, though he wasn’t expressionless this time. His face seemed to be drawn tight with tension, his body practically vibrating with…anger? Frustration?

At her…or at the unexplained loss of life?

This was more than coincidence. It had to be. They—her, the bodies of the happy couple and the man who smelled like sunlight—couldn’t
all
be on the same out-of-the-way street, at the same time, after sharing a ride on a Ferris wheel on the other side of the river only hours before. It was unbelievable. Impossible.

Fate.

It struck her suddenly. Was this
it
? The night she died? She could see her watcher’s eyes as if they glowed in the darkness, the lights from the emergency vehicle flashing on his large frame while he stood, unmoving. Was his the last face she would see?

Strange as it sounded, she wanted to go to him. Wanted to be near him again before she met her fate. Ask his name. Kiss him.

A frightened voice in her head whispered,
No. Don’t you see? They didn’t jump. You know they didn’t. None of this is right. Why is he here? What if it was him?

She shook her head again, unwilling to believe it. Not him. But in reaction to the possibility her hands tightened into white-knuckled fists within her pockets.

“Ouch—oh—
damn it
.” She pulled out her hand and saw the blood, the small shards of glass from the vial protruding from her palm. “
No.
I didn’t mean to do that. Joseph…”

What if that really
had
been one last gift from her brother and she’d destroyed it with her carelessness? She saw the black grains covered in her blood and wanted to save them. Wanted to weep and scream. Wanted the pain inside her to finally stop.

Stop thinking.

“Not to intrude…” She heard the voice as if from a great distance. The man who’d propositioned her in the pub. He no longer sounded cocksure and seductive. “But your friend there is bleeding and obviously upset. She needs to rest now. I believe you should get her home before more authorities arrive.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, asshole, but I’m already planning on it. Oh shit, Aziza, why are you bleeding?” Greg, obviously done trying to get through to her with words, lifted her up into his arms and began to move through the crowd. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

She didn’t feel as safe as she usually did around him, but she didn’t demand he let her go. Didn’t insist she was fine. She wasn’t, and she was aware enough to know that, if nothing else. She studied her hand where it lay on his shoulder. It was burning. Why would glass burn? 

She pulled out the largest shard and watched in silent shock as the sand began to slide along her skin toward the wound, slipping inside as if it were alive. Drawn to her the way she’d been drawn to it.

“My hand.” She spoke so softly she didn’t think anyone would hear her. The burning had intensified, the strong smell of charred flesh filling her nostrils as a pattern was branded into her palm. Could no one else smell it? See what was happening?

The pattern formed the outline of a circle and inside was a beautiful design that meant nothing to her. It almost looked like writing, maybe Arabic—it had that beautiful, artistic flow to it—but she couldn’t recognize it at all. The pain was so intense that for a moment she was afraid she would black out. She had to tell them. Had to show them.

“Penn. Greg. My
hand
.”

Greg stopped at the corner and waited for her aunt to catch up. “Penn, she’s hurting. Bleeding. Do we need to go to the hospital? Does it need stitches?”

Aziza‘s head fell back against Greg’s arm, and she moved her hand off his shoulder and across her body for Penn to see. The burning had become a warm tingling sensation. And it was spreading. Her whole body felt strange, but she was no longer panicked. No longer hysterical.

Penn took her hand and ran her thumbs over Aziza’s palm. “There’s nothing here.” She sounded frustrated. Worried. How could she not see it? “There’s blood, but if she was cut it isn’t visible. Could you see her the whole time? Did she get near the bodies? Touch anything?”