Forbidden Fruit (8 page)

“Fair enough.”

“Give me some time. Not long. Just…I need to think.”

“Are you sure? Thinking is bad.” But I’m teasing him. When I said I’d move on, I meant after fruitless months…or maybe even years. I’ve never been in this situation before, so I can’t say with any surety when I’d run out of patience. So if he needs a few days to consider where we go from here, that’s fine.

And he knows this. That’s a handy adjunct to his empathy; he can feel my amusement. His expression lightens to relief and appreciation. I don’t have to worry about stupid fights with Jesse. He’ll always know how I’m feeling when I say something. It also means there will be no secrets, no quietly nursed resentments. I bet most women found that much honesty terrifying, but I’m on board.

“If…when…we do this, just know…I’m gonna be possessive as hell. I’ll crowd you. I might annoy you. And I don’t want—”

“Hey. None of that’s a surprise to me. If you start bugging me, I’ll push back. I’m
not
made of spun sugar and unicorn whiskers.”

“Do unicorns have whiskers?”

I grin at him. “That’s completely beside the point.”

Jesse puts on a movie after that, and the air feels clear between us. We’re not together, exactly, but we’re in the sweet anticipatory stage where desire flares like a bottle rocket and lights the sky with promise.

At the midway point, he squeezes an arm around my shoulder. “Stop thinking about sex. It’s distracting.”

“I guarantee nothing.”

In fact, he sleeps on the couch with me. I suspect his neck hurts in the morning because we drifted off snuggled up with his arm about me. Jesse rushes around getting ready, and I can tell he feels awful that he has to run, and he can’t take me to work, but I don’t have to be there for three more hours. So I hang out at his place until it’s time for my shift, then I catch the bus as usual.

I come in through the employee entrance and draw up short when I step into the food court. Strangely, there’s a man sitting at one of the tables, even though none of the stands are open yet. He’s not eating, either, or reading a magazine. He’s just…waiting. There’s a niggling familiarity about him, but I can’t place the memory—and when I try, that old sharp pain surges forth. The last few days have been weird enough that I pull my radio out of my backpack. Better to look like an oddball than to be caught defenseless.

“You won’t need that, Shannon.”

What’s with all of these guys knowing my name?!
I stop, narrowing my eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

From this distance, I can see that his skin isn’t quite right, either, but it’s not as bad as the old woman or the man who was following me at the market. He clasps his hands before him, like that will reassure me.

“I’m here to offer you a deal,” he says.

“I’ll just bet.”

“What if I told you I could restore all your lost memories? How much is that worth to you?”

“A lot,” I answer, before I can stop myself.

Dammit.
I just gave up some leverage.

“Excellent.” The man looks dreadfully pleased. “And what if I told you that regaining your memories means losing Jesse Saldana forever?”

Shit. Is that his price?
I’m familiar enough with the concept to realize I’m being offered a demonic bargain.
There’s always an awful aspect to the deal, but they don’t usually spell it out for you upfront.

Yet I don’t even have to think about it. “Forget it. I’ll handle the uncertainty. I won’t live without Jesse.”

“That’s exactly what I told them you’d say,” he murmurs.

When I turn, he’s already gone.

Nine

The week ends without further complications. This makes me nervous because demons have been all up in my business, whatever that is. I imagine it’s related to the memories I’ve lost. Since they want Jesse as the price for getting them back, well, it’s not happening. I’ll deal with this some other way.

I don’t see Jesse until the following Saturday, though he sends regular texts, so I know he’s thinking of me. And I hope he’s contemplating our situation. But I’m trying not to be pushy. He has to want this as much as I do.

Early on Saturday afternoon, he calls me. “I’ll be at your place in half an hour. Pack a bag.”

“I’m not moving in with you. What if the sex is terrible? I’ll have to take all my stuff home again, and I’m opposed to so much extra work.”

“Stop trying to sidetrack me, woman. I know I’m supposed to want to prove my prowess now.”

“And don’t you?” I ask softly.

“Dammit, Shan. Later.” He sounds equal parts amused and turned on. “We’ve got a meeting with Twila tonight.”

She’s the woman who runs Texas. I’ve never met her, but I’m told she’s the most powerful person in the whole state, so far as the supernatural community is concerned. Whether you’re a witch, warlock, wizard, Gifted, or demon, you owe Twila fealty. I probably should’ve gone to see her when I first arrived, but I had other things on my mind, like not being homeless or unemployed.

“Does she know about my gift?”

“Twila knows everything, but she’ll ask a steep price for her information.”

“If I can afford it, I’ll pay. And…I’m getting my stuff together now. Gotta go.”

I hang up on him again, something that gives me inordinate pleasure. The background noise made me think he was in the car when he called, so I hurry through packing. I take enough for an overnight stay: clean panties, bra, fresh outfit. The combat boots I’m wearing will work tomorrow, so I don’t need extra shoes. Then I stuff my huge cosmetic bag into the backpack.

The weird thing is, I can imagine washing off my makeup before going to bed with Jesse. I can picture letting him see my naked face in the morning, the way other people rarely see me. In my mind, it’s like when a Victorian maiden lets down her long hair only in front of her husband. There’s a sexual component to it, a sense of stripping down with him completely. I
want
that. The other night, I didn’t take my paint off, so it was kinda smeared when we woke up, but he was in such a hurry that I don’t think he paid much attention.

I’m waiting out front when he arrives. Waving, I jog toward the SUV, but he’s faster, sliding across the hood to keep me from opening my own door. I find his eagerness adorable. He sets a palm to my cheek and kisses me softly, sweetly.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s a thousand words crammed into one. It’s
hello
and
how are you
and
I missed you
and
thanks for coming when I call
.

I
hear
him. I hope I always do.

“Hey yourself.” I don’t know if I’m as eloquent with my tone as he is with that sexy-as-fuck drawl, but he can feel my emotional response.

I watch his eyes melt. Deep down I highly suspect the women who left Jesse just couldn’t carry his love, because it’s a big, deep-swimming plesiosaur of a thing, and if you’re not strong enough, it could swallow you whole. There’s something I haven’t told him, though. I’ve spent my life with a hole inside me too, waiting for somebody who’ll make me the center of his world—and without trying to change me. It feels like nobody’s ever loved me exactly as I am.

“Not…sad. Wistful? Why?”

I just shake my head and hop into the Forester. It’s not time to be emotional. Since this is a road trip, I buckle up and fiddle with the radio. “Does Laredo have a non-country radio station?”

“Careful,” he teases. “You might end up with dead people instead of music.”

“One day, when you least expect it, I’ll make you sorry for that.”

“Shan, you’ll never make me sorry for anything.”

“You make it impossible to stay pissed at you.”

“Psh. As if you were.”

He’s got me there. I find some decent music, and Jesse doesn’t object to what I like.
Good sign.
The drive to San Antonio passes with him teasing me, and I joke back. Every word has a flirty, playful undertone; it definitely qualifies as foreplay. But he quiets the closer we get to the city, and he’s not talking at all by the time he pulls off the highway.

Twilight is situated in a seedy area, a strip on Main full of Goth bars and gay clubs. A few of them look like they’d be fun. Does Jesse like to go dancing? Our destination occupies the corner, and it’s built of crumbling brick. If Jesse wasn’t leading the way, I’d have no reason to head into such an unremarkable place. The only bit of color comes from a small purple neon sign that says
Twilight.

“This is kind of a hub,” he explains, opening the black metal door for me. “Where the Gifted populace can mingle, make connections. Sometimes there’s work for hire. Other times it’s just people cutting loose.”

The floor is hardwood in need of refinishing and partially covered in faded carpet. On the walls, red lights glow in scalloped sconces, then there’s this funky maroon striped wallpaper. Dark beams give the place a certain rugged charm. I like that it isn’t pretentious. You could really settle down and drink here. Well, as long as you like the Dropkick Murphys, currently blaring from the jukebox.

“Don’t you ever play anything else?” Jesse asks the ginger-haired, freckled bartender.

The woman shrugs. “They’re Twila’s favorite band. Haven’t seen you in here for a while. Everything all right?”

“More or less. Is she ready for us?”

“Not quite. I’ll let you know when she buzzes.”

“Then let’s have a drink while we wait.” Jesse orders a lime fizz, which is basically just lime juice and seltzer. I’m sure he’s thinking about the drive back.

I’m not technically old enough to drink, but I wear so much makeup that bartenders rarely card me. They assume the paint is to cover wrinkles, I guess. So I say, “Can you make me a Forbidden Fruit?”

“Coming right up.” I watch as she mashes the kiwi, adds sugar, Midori, sake, Zubrowka, and lemon juice. The resulting cocktail is fresh, fruity, and a delightful blend of sweet and sour. Jesse raises a brow at me, looking bemused, as I sip.

“That’s the girliest drink I’ve ever seen.”

“What? It’s not even pink. I’m sure Cosmos are girlier. Even a Tequila Sunrise looks more feminine.”

“I don’t do tequila.”

“One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor?” I guess.

He laughs. “More than once, and I finally learned my lesson. The agave plant and I simply do
not
get along.”

“Let me guess. For light drinking, you prefer a bottled beer, probably microbrew. And when you’re feeling fancy, it’s expensive Scotch.”

“Smart-ass.” Jesse leans in and kisses me. “Mmm. Forbidden fruit, so very sweet.” His drawl kills me dead. Dead, I tell you, especially the way he stretches the word
very
. He goes on, “But yes. In beer, it’s Flying Dog pale ale. For sipping, I prefer Chivas, if you’re looking to buy me something nice.”

I grin. “I doubt I can afford it on a Pretzel Pirate’s salary.”

“Then you’d better find a higher-paying job if you intend to keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed.”

I absolutely
love
this exchange because the idea of me being Jesse’s sugar momma is hilarious. Besides, he gets a cop’s paycheck, so he’s not used to a lavish lifestyle. I’m giggling quietly as the bartender says: “Twila will see you now.”

Jesse takes my hand and guides me back, suddenly somber, and I take my cue from him. My first impression of the Queen of Texas is regal beauty. Her presence is powerful, making you want to drop to one knee in obeisance. I can imagine her seducing Mark Anthony or captivating Caesar on a barge drifting slowly down the Nile. She’s tall, stately, with graceful shoulders and dusky skin. Her black hair hangs in beautiful braids, twisted together and caught in a golden snood. This only reveals her strong jaw and sculpted cheekbones. Right now, I realize I’ve been staring too long, but she must be used to startling people with her majesty.

Her office is equally impressive, all old-world elegance. I dip at the knee, unable to control the urge. Jesse bends as well, bowing before her.

And Twila smiles.

“I wondered how long it would be before you lost lambs came bleating at me.” Her voice is lovely too, mellifluous and rich with just a hint of tropical islands. “Sit, little one.”

She’s clearly talking to me, so I obey, folding my hands in my lap like I’ve been called out for disciplinary action. I’m so nervous, more than when the old woman was trying to murder me. And what sense does that make? Yet the air feels thick, not with the dead, but…sentience. It’s like no feeling I’ve ever had before.

Before I can speak, she adds, “Let me save you some time. You want your lost memories…and to know why the demons are involved.”

Jesse was right; she
does
know everything. She’s like that song, where Santa Claus sounds like a stalker. He sets a hand on my shoulder, obviously sensing my emotional state. Something about this room is freaking me out. My skin literally creeps, like when I was being watched at the mall, only not quite.

“You’re more sensitive than most,” she says softly. Then she whispers a few words, and the atmosphere lightens.