Enslaved (The Inbetween Novels) (18 page)

The phone in his pocket buzzed. Deryck yanked the phone out with so much force he nearly ripped his pants. A grin spread over his face the moment he saw Shayla’s name and number on the small screen.

Deryck’s thumb hovered over the green button. Searing pain raced down his wrist, into his hand. Cursing, he shoved the phone back in his pocket. He yanked up the sleeve of his jacket. The tattoo on his wrist expanded to cover most of his forearm.

“Of all the times to be summoned…”

The world around him melted away.

Cool, crisp grass tickled between Deryck’s bare toes. He frowned down and discovered loose black linen pants and a silver vest had replaced his jeans, t-shirt, and jacket. He looked like a male stripper.
Wonderful, one of those types.

The Inbetween was eerily quiet. Tall trees surrounded a small circular patch of grass. To his left, a stream cut through the trees and fell down a short waterfall. He had a feeling whoever summoned him fancied stories with fae, the place reeked of potential magic—and not the sort that happened when two people came together to make love.

Leaves rustled behind him. Deryck turned slowly so he didn’t startle the woman.

She peered at him from behind the trunk of a tall oak tree. Something silver dangled from her fingertips. “I can’t believe this hunk of crap worked.”

Deryck fought not to shake his head. He hated the charms, they were the easiest way for him to be used over and over again if a woman desired. So far, he’d escaped being trapped by one of his callers by such a device. May the gods help him the day someone found a charm made specifically to call him and not just any nearby incubi. He kept the only one of his charms he knew existed safe in the barracks.

The woman stepped around the tree. Just as he suspected, she fashioned clothing for herself akin to what a nymph would wear—a loose gown draped over one shoulder and pinned in place with a pearl-encrusted broach. The material was so flimsy; he caught glimpses of her nipples each time the dress moved. It was an outfit meant to drive even a monk wild with lust. Deryck held no appreciation for her efforts. She was a gorgeous woman, but he had no desire to sleep with her.

“My friend bought this thing for me from a voodoo shop in Cleveland, of all places.” She twirled the charm around on its silver chain. “I thought she was bat-shit crazy when she told me what it was supposed to do. But,” she said and came to a stop so close he could smell the natural fragrance of her skin. “Here you are. In the flesh. Mighty fine flesh too. I have to thank Cathy when I get home.”

Deryck got the impression the woman would never shut up unless he did something to distract her. His fingertips gently closed around her wrist to stop the twirling charm. “Then make the most of your time, mistress.”

She shivered. “Ooh . . . I like that. Say it again.”

Deryck plastered on his best grin. “Anything you wish, mistress.”

The woman dropped the charm. It landed in the grass with a soft whoosh and vanished. Her free hands smoothed up Deryck’s chest, fingertips teasing circles around his nipples. She raked her nails down his chest. Deryck forced himself to stay put through the discomfort. Pain was only pleasurable for him in the heat of the moment, even then he rarely truly enjoyed it.

Her hands continued to explore his body, heading further and further south. “Whatever I wish? I wish to . . .” She paused, one hand on his groin. “Thought you guys were supposed to be ready and willing no matter what.”

Confused, Deryck looked down to where her hand caressed him. He’d never failed to be ready for his callers before. As a matter of fact, Deryck was so accustomed to being erect in the Inbetween, he hadn’t noticed his dick was as hard as soggy pasta.

“My apologies, mistress.” Mentally, he kicked himself and tried everything to get his body to cooperate.

A wicked look crossed the woman’s face. She leaned in and gently bit his chest. Before he realized what her intentions were, she lowered herself to her knees and worked his linen pants down to his knees. “Don’t worry, I know how to fix this.”

“
. . . is currently out of network range. Leave a message at the tone . . . .
”

Shayla dragged her purse strap higher on her shoulder and stole a look around the empty office to make sure no one heard her. “Hey, Deryck. It’s me, Shayla. I—I’m sorry about not calling sooner. I’d like to see you again, maybe this weekend? Call me back.”

She hung up before she could say anything ridiculous—Keep It Simple Stupid—a rule she needed to remind herself of more often so she didn’t make a complete ass of herself any time she encountered a hot guy interested in her. Not that it happened often. Deryck was the first man in a long time to ask her out. Most of the time she wore an invisible, “Don’t even bother asking me out on a date” sign.

Shayla flipped the phone nervously in her hand. She’d been putting the call off for two days. At first she didn’t call because she didn’t want to look needy or desperate for a second date. Then after her nightmare, she was sure it’d been a sign to not go forward with any plans with Deryck, or anyone. Cyrus haunted her, even from his grave. What kind of companion could she be for anyone when a dead man claimed her thoughts for the last five years?

Stowing her phone, Shayla left the office and took the elevator down to the lobby. It was dark in there, despite the huge bank of windows on either side of the door. She walked out under the cloud-filled sky and hoped to hell it didn’t decide to rain.

A group of coworkers gathered near the grassy area out front. Shayla stopped and backtracked to walk the other way. Too late.

Kelly spotted her and hurried over. She locked an arm around Shayla’s and tugged her toward the group. “Happy hour tonight. You can’t say no.”

“I really just want to go home.”

“And sit by yourself watching TV? Come on, you’ve been weird the last few days. Let me make sure you’re okay. Is this about your date?”

Shayla shook her head. “No, the date was pretty good. Well, I mean, he was late, but after that part it was fun.”

Kelly pulled her just outside of the gathered coworkers. “Then what’s the matter?”

“It’s going to sound stupid. I had a nightmare the day after the date that hit a nerve.”

“And one nightmare turned you into an antisocial tortoise? It was your subconscious trying to ruin your good time. You always do that to yourself, Shayla. Now you really have to come tonight.”

Shayla nodded reluctantly. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, good question.” Kelly shouldered their way into the middle of the group. “Okay, where are we going and can I get there in these shoes?” She kicked up her foot to show off a pair of purple do-me pumps.

“What does everyone want to drink?” One of the secretaries, Yvonne, asked.

A guy from the mailroom exhaled a puff of smoke and leaned in. “Avalon has five-dollar margaritas.”

“No ta-kill-ya for me unless you are offering to carry my ass home later, Bradley.” A round of commentary echoed Cyd’s sentiment. She lurked in the heart of the office in the closet where the servers were kept. All that time alone warped her sense of humor in wonderful ways.

Kelly waved a hand. “Okay, okay. No margaritas. What else is around here?”

Another secretary jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Sal’s has four-dollar Long Islands for the next two hours. It’s two blocks over.”

“Sal’s is the place with the kick-ass twice-baked potatoes, right Holly?” Cyd’s eyes lit up.

Holly nodded. “Yup. The ones with blue cheese instead of cheddar. Okay, I’m drooling, let’s go.”

The eight of them took off down the street, trying to dodge the insane traffic in the financial district, recently renamed New Downtown. A couple cars honked at them as they crossed a side street—never mind that the car had a red light and they were in the crosswalk. Irritated people on the way home from work were some of the worst drivers on earth. That, or downtown was populated by self-important assholes. Another car honked at them. The driver leaned through the window and made a sexually suggestive gesture.

Yup, I’m surrounded by assholes.

They piled in through the double doors at Sal’s. Bradley and Ray broke off toward the bar to order their drinks, and after a chorus of yells after them, two orders of the twice-baked potatoes.

The rest of the office crew took over a large booth in the back of the semi-crowded bar. Conversation from the busy bar swarmed around them. Shayla wanted to crawl under the table and hide. She’d never been very social. Sitting in a bar on a work night with people she worked with, but hardly knew--aside from Kelly--was unnerving.

Sal’s was a strange mix of Irish pub and Mexican restaurant. Huge, novelty bottles of tequila hung from the exposed rafters alongside Irish flags and tin Guinness posters. The one commonality tying the two countries together was the massive amount of soccer memorabilia decorating the walls. Shayla wasn’t an expert, but the framed, soiled uniforms looked to be the real deal. Someone spent a pretty penny to turn Sal’s into one big soccer love fest.

“Here, Shayla. You look like you need this.” Kelly slid over a Long Island iced tea.

“Thanks. Do I look that bad?” Shayla plucked the cherry off the top of the light brown liquid and ate it.

Kelly laughed and nudged the drink closer. “You look like a deer about to be mowed down by a semi-truck. Breathe. This is a fun night out with friends.”

“I hardly know these people,” Shayla admitted.

“You’ve worked at the office how many years now?”

“What can I say? I’m a little antisocial.” She took a sip of her drink and coughed. “Holy cow, this is pure alcohol.”

“They have a great bartender.” Kelly laughed and sipped from her own glass. “It’ll help you relax.”

“It’ll put me into a coma.” Shayla eyeballed her drink, wondering if it had been a good idea to let Kelly convince her to go out.

“At least then you’ll stop worrying so much.”

Shayla couldn’t come up with a way to argue with Kelly’s statement. It was true; she’d been wound tighter than a top for weeks. One night to relax wouldn’t kill her. Hell, she might even—gasp—like being social once in a while.
To hell with it.
She took a long drink from the Long Island and leaned back against the red vinyl bench in the booth.

The others began to talk over each other. Everyone had a horror story about the idiocy of the “Reply All” button on office emails that turn personal or accidentally sending the wrong email to someone and starting World War III in the break room. The conversation spiraled into a round of rants about how disappointing the break room was.

“Federal prisoners have better break rooms,” Tara, one of the firm’s PR reps, complained.

Shayla stifled a giggle and reached for her glass. She took a pull on the straw, but was met with nothing but air. “Oops.”

Kelly leaned against her shoulder and whispered in her ear. “Are you okay?”