Eluding Nirvana (The Dark Evoke Series Book 2) (27 page)

The blissful place I had frantically sought was found thanks to the man behind me. During each
stabilized pant as my breathing regulated, the lashes, although lessened in power, continued. Each thrashing now dispensed, my body sank into, practically unresponsive as I stood, hands braced on the desk without so much as a tensed muscle after each additional belting. My limit was found and reached. Walker knew that without so much as me telling him, and now, like a pro, he was reeling me back, working me down, leveling me out…prolonging my feeling of clarity, of emotional numbness…of bliss.

My own blissful oblivion.

When tears ran dry, I closed my eyes, my inhalations shallow and even. The sound of leather clattering to the floor was shadowed by Walker’s own heavy gasps. Unmoving, my head remained hung, the swelling gone, my head no longer aching, just…silence.

Flinching wasn’t an option when I felt calloused hands
clutch my hips, and turned me around. I was practically catatonic when we sunk to the ground, Walker cradling me in his understanding, reassuring arms, his legs open, as I avoided any pressure on my behind and positioned myself on my hip in between them.

Into his heaving chest I nuzzled, while relaxing fingers twisted in my hair.

“Thank you, Walker,” I whispered, my voice low and smooth, my gratitude bountiful.

“Shush, don’t speak. Just
savor it. Savor that numbness, darlin’.” And oddly enough, I understood exactly what he meant.

“I don’t want you to be left on your own tonight, darlin’.” Walker’s concern was broached while we were in the pick-up, drawing the seatbelt across our bodies.

For the first time since that afternoon, I sniggered ironically.

“What?”

“Funny enough, I was about to say, I really don’t want to go back home.”

One word was po
sed that had my head rearing up and our eyes locking over the bench. “Mine?”

I couldn’t say a
nything. The simple faint nod of my head was his indication, and with a grin, he promptly pulled out of the gravel lot, and headed west.

Just by the dilapidated buildings, the graffiti surrounding th
e area and the not too distant sound of sirens, I knew that this was a bad part of town. And I didn’t even need to work years on the force and get promoted to detective for that one.

Putting the truck into park, I perused the area. A basketball court surrounded by
a metal fencing along my right, and what looked like a never-ending row of run-down, dark terraced properties, some with boarded up windows, others with yet more graffiti, spanned along my left. The corner building was tall, bay windows stacked above one another. The scorch marks on the exterior were evidence that the structure had seen more than one fire in its time.

“The Pavilion. Home sweet home,” he murmured with a somewhat derisive
undertone in his husky, lilted voice.

I wasn’t
going to lie. A name like that and a structure like this, really should be immeasurable miles apart. But, I kept that to myself and flashed him a wistful smile.

“Come on, in we go.”

Inside the small entry hall, my heart lurched. With each flight of creaky stairs we ascended, and each vandalized wall with X-rated doodles and certain curse words scrolled, my heart eventually gave up lurching, and merely sat clogging the space in my throat. Walker really lived here?

When we graced the third level, I was startled by shouting from beyond the door to my right. “Ignore those, they’re always at it. You learn to block it out eventually.”
If I was the one living here, I didn’t think I could ever ignore an argument which was that heated. I meekly followed up behind him, my hands forgoing natural instincts to clasp hold of the balustrade that looked ready to crumble at any moment.

The g
reen door ahead of me stated that I was standing outside apartment 4b. Walker slipped the key in the lock, twisted it and gave the bottom of the door a swift kick, before the door swung from the frame. As he went inside, I lingered just on the threshold. I finally took a cautionary step inside, when the side lamp next to the couch chased the shadows of the apartment away, and closed the door behind me with a press of my back.

“Welcome
to the humble abode,” he teased, his hands gestured to the surroundings that were the living room then fell deeply into his denim pockets.

The plain boards protested under my feet with each step I took. The mismatched furniture, the barrenness of the cracked and crumbling walls, the chipped gloss on the windowpane of the bay window, everything was…
rundown, worn. But it didn’t matter, because it was Walker’s place, and even though it wasn’t much and wasn’t as glamorous as some properties, he managed to make it a home––his home, a home without fear.

Motioning to the
sofa, he told me to have a seat before offering me a drink. I nodded. “Too late for coffee, I’m afraid, darlin’. Beer okay for you?”

“Sure,” I
snorted. With a playful bow, he made his way down the small hall to the right as I strolled toward his couch along the back wall.

The lamp on the s
ide table to the left of me created a muted glow, one which could be deemed as almost romantic. The gap in the right corner beside the bay window piqued my interest; I noticed the neck of an acoustic guitar. Being nosey, I shimmied across the dark cushions, the springs groaned and twanged like a harp being played by unskilled hands, as I did so, and pulled free the instrument.

Bracing it on my lap, I admired its simplicity while my fingers caressed the strings. When
Walker finally advanced from the corner, he set my bottle of beer on the coffee table separating the couch and a ragged, chair facing the sofa.

“You play?” I asked.

He nodded his head, taking a slow draw from his bottle.

“Any good?” I
grinned, my brow arched.

He sheathed his perfectly straight white teeth with his l
ips, before his right thumb came up to rub along the center of his upper lip in that adorable, shy way that never failed to have me smiling. “I think it would be biased if I answer that, darlin’.”

Stroking the orange wood, I plucked one of the strings and nipped my lower lip
keenly as it vibrated. I lifted my gaze and came face to face with adoring, enraptured eyes studying me. “Will you play something for me?”

After a beat, the bottom of his beer clanked a
s he set it on the coffee table. He took position on the chair opposite after taking possession of the neck of the instrument. “What do you want me to play?”

I shrugged.
After the night I’d had, damn, after the week I’d had, anything would have been a welcomed distraction. “Something soothing.”

I watched as the cogs behind his eyes turned, his lips purse
d with thought. Finally he nodded, and got himself comfortable, perching himself on the edge of the seat and shifting his legs apart slightly. He began to play a soft tune. He was good. Real good.

What I didn’t expect was for his mouth
to open, freeing yet more of a talent that went unknown.

“Just give me your hand,

Just give me your hand,

And I’ll walk with you,

Through the streets of our land.

If you give me your hand,

Just give me your hand,

And come along with me.

By day and night,

Through all struggle and strife,

And beside you, to guide you,

Forever my love.

For love’s not for one,

But for both of us to share,

For our country so fair,

For our world and what’s there.”

“Wow,” I gasped with a stunned, unmasked grin. “That was…” I shook my head, his shy smile dancing across his mouth. “That was beautiful. I’ve never heard that before.”

“It’s an old Irish folk song. My ma used to sing it to me.”

“Used to?” The curious tone of my voice had Walker’s head tipping forward. “She died when I was seventeen.”

“Oh, Walker, I’m so
sor––” My sympathies were cut short as his tall, muscular form was hastily lifted from the chair, allowing him to slip the guitar back into its designated corner.

“It’s alright, darlin’.” He swapped the chair for the empty space beside me on the couch. “She’s always with me. Right here,” right arm crooked, he pressed his palm against his heart and smiled. “You look tired, Kady.”

I yawned. The last thing I remember was saying thank you.

“What for?” he
asked with narrowed, skeptical eyes.

“For caring about me.”

A broadening smile along with the warmth of his hand cradling my cheek, I was promptly lost in the bottomless depths of The Indian Ocean. “Forever and a day, Kady. I promise.”

The following morning,
as I straightened out my limbs, arched my back and fluttered my eyelids, two questions in my mind were found to be contending for the entitlement of first to be answered: when did I get into Walker’s bed, and why was I looking down on myself? Or up at myself, whichever way you want to discern it.

“She’s awake.” A soft, familiar brogue sounded from the
right of my feet. Eyes being rubbed to within an inch of their lives in sleep removal, I peered down at the doorway. Walker was leaning against the doorjamb, his hair all wet and unkempt from his shower, while the shape and broadness of his body was presented by the hugging of dark jeans and a black tank top. He looked utterly divine––especially with that dark scruff coating his mouth. “I have coffee,” he added, practically forcing his speech through a shy smile.

Bringing
the coffee mug to his chest, he began gradually strolling into the room.

The springs inside the mattress squealed as I sat myself up, muttering a sleepy
, “Thank you,” while seizing the mug of happiness from his clutches. As the bitter taste of Heaven slipped down my throat, the black wrought iron bedframe squeaked when he lowered himself onto the edge beside my feet. Embarrassment chased my lustful ogling of his muscular arms.  It was the first time I had seen them, and the tribal sleeve tattoo ran down his left arm, whereas a large, Celtic-styled cross lay covering his right bicep.

“Should I even ask why you have a mirror on your ceiling?
You’re not just an Irishman are you? You’re hiding some kinkiness under that exterior,” I giggled; although, I’d be untruthful if I didn’t admit I felt some sort of spear voyaging through my heart at the mere contemplation of Walker being intimate with anyone, especially in the bed I was currently occupying. It was stupid and immature, I knew that. Still, it didn’t stop me.

He tipped his head back on a small
, husky chuckle, the prominence of his Adam’s apple eliciting unexpected effects from my body and my mind. A vision of me setting my mug on the bedside table, pushing myself up onto my knees and gliding my tongue from the hollow of his throat, up and over to his jawline, and through that facial hair, was killing me. “You’re still new to all this, Kady. I’ll explain it one day.”

“Wow,” P
outing, arching my brow and bating my eyelashes in unison, I lowered my coffee, “You’re being very…Yoda-ish this morning.”

“Yoda-
ish? That’s a new one for the Oxford dictionary. I umm…” Walker dropped his focus to his hands and momentarily trailed off as he wrung his fingers in his lap. “I thought we could go out for breakfast.”

“Go out? Walker, I am far from suitably attired to be going anywhere, let alone somewhere with patrons.”

“Don’t be silly, darlin’.” The bed groaned its irate noise, which could rival nails down a blackboard, as he shifted and plowed into the walk-in-closet, which was more of a cupboard, at the foot of the bed. After a little delving around he said, “Here,” and in his grasp, hung a white Lonsdale sweater.

He had to be kidding me. I had never
been one for brand-named sportswear, even in my own house. I certainly couldn’t go out wearing it, unless I was going for a run, at least. Returning back to his position as he perched himself, once again, on the bed, Walker handed me the sweater. The cautionary glare I was directing upon the material, contrasting with the hopeful gleam in his eye. “Kady, you could be wrapped up in a potato sack and still look gorgeous, darlin’.”

I sighed loudly with a flail of my head in defeat. “Fine, you win, I’ll wear it.
But first, I have business to take care of.” I fumbled around with the comforter until I’d finally unbound myself from the gothic-styled bed, only to have Walker halt me with a warm, passionate grip around my wrist.

I had no idea where my yoga pants were.
I stood before him, under his intense scrutiny in only my panties and camisole, but I didn’t care. For some reason, I felt that what we shared together the night before––although nothing sexual––had brought us closer together and strengthened our friendship. It was almost like it had bonded us.

So w
ith a shudder at the single contact of Walker’s fingertips brushing and tracing over and around the oval and circular silver scars coating my thighs, I merely peeked down and studied him, studying me.