Raisonne Curse (6 page)

She ran her hands back down his neck, around his strong shoulders, over his collarbones. “Damn, Pryor, your skin…I love your skin.” She touched more of it, stroking her fingers over his pecs, his abdomen. She brushed against the cotton of the towel and froze.

So did Pryor. He pulled back, gaze locking with hers, chest moving with his fast breaths.

Still staring at him, she ran one finger across the tender skin just over the towel.

He went perfectly still.

“I’ve never felt this drawn to someone in my life,” she said, splaying her hand over the hard ridges of his abdomen.

Something flickered in his expression, and he suddenly took a step back, then another. He shut his eyes, obviously working to bring his body back under control.

“Pryor?”

He didn’t say anything, just kept moving away from her until his back touched the shower door.

She reached toward him, then stopped when he held up a hand and shook his head. When he looked at her, something strange passed over his expression again, some kind of anguish that made her heart bleed. “Pryor, what is it?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry, Elita.”

“Sorry for what?”

“We can’t do this.”

“Do what? Kiss?” Heat that had nothing to do with the steam lingering in the room crept up her neck. “We seem to be kind of good at that.”

His smile was rueful. “Yeah, we do. But it’s—” He chuckled and the sound didn’t have a smidgen of humor in it. “Fast.”

“You think it’s too fast?” She knew she stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “Being a hex breaker wasn’t enough to make you an unusual man? Every man I’ve ever met thought fast was the best—and sometimes—the only way.”

There was again, no humor in his answering laugh. “Could you give me a couple of minutes to get dressed?”

She didn’t want to leave him alone, didn’t want to walk away and leave him feeling whatever it was causing the kind of deep pain she’d just glimpsed. She also didn’t want to stay where she wasn’t wanted, and it was possible that was it. Desire aside, she was trouble and nobody would know that more than this man. Even though it felt like a giant fist was squeezing the air out of her lungs, she pulled out everything she had to give him a friendly smile that showed nothing of her inner turmoil. She hoped.

“I shouldn’t have run in here like that, but I was looking for you. I wanted to let you know that I called a cab. It’s probably here by now. I’ll pick up another cell phone and call you so you have my number. I’ll come back when your brothers are here and—” He opened his mouth and she knew he was going to argue.

This time she held up her hand. “I think it’s better that I go. You’re okay with me coming back, right?”

He nodded. “You’ll have to come back. We can never turn a request down.”

She frowned. “But you didn’t turn me down. You tried to break the curse.”

“I did. But it didn’t work. I have to keep trying until it works.”

“What?” White, hot fear blinded her for a moment. “But Ma’man—that’s not what I’ve heard and if that’s true, it’s not fair.”

“And how much of life is?”

“No.” She shook her head, hugging her arms to her waist. “I didn’t know. If I’d known I never would have come here, never would have asked. Your hands…” She sucked in a deep breath. “Is the payback worse for bigger spells?”

He didn’t answer right away and she watched his face, frowned.

“You’re trying to come up with a way to lie to me, aren’t you?” she asked.

“No, not lie. Not exactly.”

She stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. “Is it worse, Pryor?”

He stared down her, his expression grim. “Yes.”

“And it will be okay if your brothers are here?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll call and come back when they’re here. Thank you so much for all you’ve done so far.”

Elita didn’t give him any time to answer. She ran downstairs and took her still-wet things from the dryer. Sure enough, the cab was outside, so she walked out and turned to look at the house. They hadn’t started the renovations out here yet and chipped paint and overgrown vines covered the once-white pillars on the porch. She looked up to find Pryor watching her through a window. It took everything she had to give him her best, fake smile as she waved and got into the cab.

The slow, sure strums of a guitar made a lovely backdrop to the multitude of voices, all talking in low tones on Ma’man’s porch. None of it drowned out the creak of the moving chains holding up the swing where she was currently curled. Or the constant stream of singing crickets around them.

Elita picked at the loose threads on the old red cushion that had been here as long as she could remember. It was faded pink now.

Tooter and his sons were here for supper along with three other men and a woman she’d just met tonight. One of the fishermen, Jamal, had brought some of the best fried gator bites she’d ever tried. Since it wasn’t yet hunting season for them, he must have pulled the meat from his freezer. The man wouldn’t share his batter recipe either, no matter how much she begged.

Everyone lazed about the porch, enjoying the music and the conversation. Elita and her grandmother had more than tripled the amount of food Ma’man had planned to make and it had taken a couple of hours to cook. Nobody seemed to mind. They all contributed to Ma’man’s ancient freezer, then hung out even though it was after dark when it finally came time to eat.

Tooter sighed loudly, propped his feet on an upside down shrimp bucket and rubbed his belly. “Dose were de best pork and butter beans you ever made, Ma’man.”

Elita wondered if anyone thought it weird that Tooter called his girlfriend
mother
. Or even
grandmother
, depending on who you talked to. Some even considered the term derogatory. Not Ninette. She wore the moniker with pride. Everyone called the woman Ma’man Raisonne and Ava was always saying it was because the names rhymed and were more fun to say than
Ninette
, but one would think intimacy would make the address weird. Though technically, Elita was pretty sure enough years separated her grandmother and the fisherman to create that sort of age difference. If her grandmother had been an even younger teenaged mother.

“Elita seasoned de beans. Did de rice right too, yeah?” Ma’man grinned without a hint of resentment over being told something Elita had made was better than hers. She was wearing another of those short summer dresses, this one light blue. It showed off her still-petite figure and the tan she never seemed to be without. Moonlight sparkled on her white hair. “Taught dat girl right, I did.”

Amusement curled Elita’s lip. Ma’man had still taken credit, though a lot of the credit did go to her. “You didn’t think I was paying attention all those years beside you at the stove, did you?” She lowered her foot and started the swing moving again, wishing for a cool breeze. One would break through the thick stands of trees once in a while and each time, she’d closer her eyes and let it soak into the sweat on her skin. When she was little, Ma’man had once told her that every summer breeze was a thank you from the universe when it was being treated right.

“You put your own twist on de food. Make it better. You’re a good child.” She came to sit on the other side of the swing and put her hand on Elita’s knee. “It didn’t work. De un-hexin’, cuz I cain sure still feel it.”

Elita nodded. “Only one of the brothers was there and he tried. I haven’t had another accident today, so whatever he did helped.”

“Ain’t gonna last.”

Elita knew that. She knew this was just a reprieve and she didn’t understand why. The weight of the curse was still there, like a smothering, scratchy layer of wool that scraped her skin raw. Every now and then, her heart would start to beat rapidly and she felt like the anxiety of wondering why the curse had ebbed and what it would do next was wreaking havoc with her system—keeping her off balance. Was it back-building like the water in a monster wave? Getting ready to devastate her entire life somehow?

Or was she being too pessimistic and maybe that head wash had cut it down a bit? Maybe the happenings last night had been nothing more than her own imagination and nerves, brought on by being caught in a storm in the swamp.

“Dey’ll get it right.” Ma’man patted her knee, then turned to look at Tooter’s son, who was still lazily strumming his guitar. “Play somedin’ happy. I wanna dance!”

He launched into something with a lot more rhythm and fire, his quiet nature completely belied by the exuberance of the music. Ma’man whooped, stood up, and pulled Tooter to his feet. The scraggly old man’s grin was cheeky, and not just a little excited, as the two launched into a silly dance that had the man twirling Elita’s grandmother all the way down the pier.

Elita, laughing and clapping, thought again about her decision to stay here. Something about the people, the swamp… It got under the skin, crawled into the heart. She’d missed her family and friends here. The whole idea to run north seemed idiotic now, but it really hadn’t been. Being a part of this area, a part of this life, made a person understand how connected everything truly was. Made sense that a hex born from here would cling to its place of birth. Or so she’d thought.

But she did know she didn’t want to go back now. And maybe, if she stayed here, she could take the time to get to know Pryor. Every cell in her body came to life under his touch. Something was holding him back, but she’d felt that return desire in him—it had burned through her like brush fire in a dry season. And there’d been a look in his eyes when he stared, a look that said she could affect his very heart.

She already knew he was going to affect hers. Something told her that Pryor Bernaux could crawl into her heart and completely take over its beat.

C
hapter Six

Pryor stared at the play of morning light on his ceiling as the sun rose. It chased snake patterns on the flowered wallpaper as it came through the leaves on the trees just outside his window. Exhaustion made him feel weighted down in his bed, like an invisible tarp smothered him. He’d barely slept.

I’ve never felt this drawn to someone in my life.

Elita’s words played in his head over and over, like they had been for hours. He loved women. Always had. But he’d never wanted to keep one around as much as he did Elita Raisonne. The pact he’d made with his brothers hadn’t seemed that big a deal at the time, and it wasn’t even that, really. It was the knowledge he couldn’t subject her to this life. His own mother hadn’t been able to take it. And his father had never known if she’d been attracted to him because he’d once removed a
cunja
from her.

He’d never understood how his father could have lived with her for so long and not known. It would have killed Pryor. It had pretty much killed his father’s spirit when she left.

The pain that had slashed through Pryor’s heart with Elita’s words had been rough. He’d thought he understood suffering and pain. But in that moment, he’d realized he wanted something from Elita that he didn’t deserve—something that probably wasn’t even real. And for the first time, he’d understood why his father had been willing to live a possible lie.

But
merde
, the woman felt right for him. Her skin, her taste. Even her own unique sweet scent that came through despite the lingering rosemary from the head wash made him want to bury his face in her neck and just inhale her into his body. She had somehow crawled under his skin in a crazy short amount of time, making that skin feel tight and hot.

The voices of dead family weren’t helping at all. They urged him along, and if he tried to make out specific words, a sort of rage filled him. Scared him. As if they knew he thought of them, they rose in volume.

She is Bernaux.

That was the one phrase he heard more than any others and it made no sense. None. He was familiar with his family’s entire history and Raisonnes were nowhere in it.

The awful sound of his grandmother’s cries joined the noise and he gave up trying to sleep. Years of silence and they couldn’t be quiet, not even when he was in bed.

He threw on his favorite pair of old jeans. He’d washed them so often, they were soft and threadbare in places. Plus, he didn’t mind getting them dirty. He whistled for Moochon as he went downstairs and sat on the bench by the back door to put on his boots. The dog’s nails clicked on the wooden floors as he came running—probably from the family room where Moochon liked to curl up. It used to be another bedroom, a downstairs master. They’d turned it into a room for movies and video games with soft, dark furniture they could put their feet on that didn’t show stains. Even the serious Mercer liked the video games. Thinking of his brother, Pryor stood and opened the cabinet where they kept the phone charger so he could grab his phone.

He scratched Moochon behind the ears, smiled into those dual-colored eyes. “Wanna go for a walk? Walk, boy?”

If Moochon had a tail, it would be thumping hard on the floor because the little nub he had left jiggled like crazy. Pryor could swear the dog grinned at him. When his mouth stretched like that, Moochon’s multi-colored eyes sort of rolled in and made him look cross-eyed. Pryor pet his dog’s head. “You’re such a good boy.”

Moochon had shown up one morning after a night of payback in the swamp. He’d been resting on the small beach by the huge tree that jutted out over the water toward the tangle of roots Pryor didn’t go anywhere near during the day. It was the one part of the swamp he and his brothers loathed. This mangy, half-starved dog, missing his tail and looking like he’d spent his life fighting, had peered up at him and done that weird smiling pant.

Pryor had driven into town and put up fliers. That night, when Wyatt had seen him, he mentioned hearing about a local dog-fighting ring and Pryor hadn’t even finished his dinner. He’d driven back to town and taken down all the fliers. Moochon joined the family. And he never acted skittish like one would expect from an abused dog—well, not around most people. There were a few who came here who made Moochon growl.

Humidity slammed into him as Pryor pushed open the screen door. It creaked and banged shut behind him. Moochon took off ahead of Pryor as he picked up the pace, enjoying the stretch and pull of muscles in his legs.

He passed the outbuildings, followed his dog’s favorite path into the woods. His phone vibrated in his pocket, so he pulled it out to find a text from Wyatt.

“Mercer got pissed, rented a car and is on his way to get me. We should be there tomorrow.”

Pryor shoved the phone back into his pocket, frowning as he realized Moochon had gone off course and was leading him to the part of the swamp Pryor hated. He spent enough time in that section at night. Against his will.

“Come on, Moochon! Let’s go another way.”

But Moochon released one of his rare barks and didn’t deter.

Hot sunlight spilled on Pryor’s face as he left the cover of trees. He only came here when forced and seeing it in the bright daylight made everything inside him go tight. Especially when he looked at the seat he and his brothers had carved into the side of the dead cypress tree.

He couldn’t hear his grandmother’s sobs here—he thought maybe they were confined to the house now—but at one time this had been the place for that sound. She’d followed him and his brothers to the water every damned time they’d been forced into it. And she would stay, collapsed on the shore, and cry for them.

Pryor ran his hand over the seat, remembering when it had held a soft cushion. He and his brothers had made a place for her to sit once they realized they couldn’t talk her out of coming. Now that he was an adult, he understood. They’d been the youngest brothers to inherit the curse and their grandmother had already weathered the deaths of her own sons and her husband. Generations of Bernaux curses had made her life a living hell. She could have left, but she’d stayed and she’d cared for them and she’d cried her heart out.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. It killed him,
killed him
that she still suffered in death and he’d give anything to know a way to stop it, to ease her torment.

Years ago, before the voices had gone silent, Mercer had suggested that the only way to stop the suffering was to end the Bernaux with their generation. They’d made a pact to never fall in love, to never start families.

It was ripping Pryor apart because he’d looked into Elita’s eyes yesterday and he’d wanted nothing more than to take back that promise. He knew she could be the one to ease this constant, lonely ache, to maybe give him the family he craved.

Moochon whined and nudged Pryor’s thigh. He looked down and tried to offer his pet a reassuring smile. The dog had sort of taken over their grandmother’s job. He always followed them, always watched over them, and had never—not once—not been there in the morning.

“Why’d you bring me here, pup?”

Moochon did a little circular dance and lay down next to a patch of blackberries.

Chuckling, Pryor shook his head. That dog had been with him during many a blackberry picking session and seemed to like the times Pryor took them home and made cobbler. It was the one thing he knew how to make well. His favorite was dewberry, but those vines had given up fruit some time ago. He took off his T-shirt and filled it with berries. He’d make a nice dessert for when Elita came back. Maybe in a way, it would make up for the look he’d put on her face yesterday when he’d been unable to explain why he pushed her away.

Pryor didn’t answer the front door when she rang the bell.

Elita blew out a breath, trying to get her sweaty hair off her forehead. When it didn’t move, she grimaced and dug through her bag for a scrunchy. She didn’t care that the fluffy hair bands weren’t in fashion anymore because they worked best on long, thick hair. She found a black one, slipped it over her wrist and set her purse on the porch. She raked her hair back with her fingers, noting the areas around her temples were damp. Once her hair was off her face and neck, she sighed with relief. Leaving it down on a hot day like today had been a bad, bad idea. She ignored the tiny voice that whispered she’d wanted to look good for the youngest Bernaux brother.

She picked up her purse, thought about locking it in the car, but remembered she’d thrown in more makeup that morning. It would all melt into goo. Normally, she didn’t carry much in her purse.

Normally, she didn’t primp like this.

She had it bad.

Bad enough that she’d gone against her own promise to wait to come back. She hoped his brothers were home, but if they weren’t, her plan was to not let Pryor do any magic on her whatsoever. Squaring her shoulders, Elita walked along the long, creaking porch to the side stairs. She kept her gaze on the ground as she walked, checking for stray vines. For crawling, murderous, tripping vines. A stand of thick trees made welcome shade as she followed the faint sound of music coming from the back of the house. Recognizing the slow, sexy trip hop song, she picked up her pace and headed for the walkway between the small outbuildings.

A glance toward the house showed he’d managed to paint another section in the time she’d been gone. That was probably why he hadn’t answered his phone today.

She slowed when she spotted Pryor.

He lay in a hammock stretched between two massive trees at the edge of the cleared backyard. A portable CD player sat next to him. She recognized the sultry song, surprised he was listening to something from the nineties. She tried to guess his age again as she walked close to him. The sunlight sparkled off the water on his other side. He must have been wearing shorts because one muscular, bare leg bent over the edge of the hammock as he pushed off with his foot.

Surely he wasn’t lying out here naked.

His arms came up to lace behind his briefly raised head and she breathed out a sigh when she saw the black T-shirt. She tried to tell herself it was a sigh of relief that he was obviously not naked out here. She set her purse under one of the tables out of the sun and walked up to the hammock. Pryor continued to gently push off the ground as he watched her come close.

“I got the
paresse
.”

Heat curled inside Elita with Pryor’s low, muttered words. It shot throughout her body when his mouth stretched into that slow, sexy grin.

“You feel lazy, eh?”

“
Oui
. It’s too hot to keep painting today.” His thigh muscles flexed as he rocked the hammock. His T-shirt had more holes than Swiss cheese, his khaki shorts looked well washed and soft. “This is the best place on the whole property that picks up a breeze.”

She lifted an eyebrow, then briefly closed her eyes to try and feel it. She grinned, looked back at him. “What breeze? You’re making that up.”

“Alohrs pas!”

His low chuckle as he said “Of course not!” made her flush. She could imagine hearing it, by her ear, in bed. The chuckle, not those particular words. She couldn’t imagine anything he would say no to in bed.

And with that thought, her lower body started that annoying hot throb again.

“Close your eyes again, Elita,” he said, voice low. “Wait.”

She did. All she heard was the gentle creak of the ropes holding the hammock, the plop of something jumping into the swamp close to them…the rustle of leaves above, which meant the wind could and did reach some of this area. And then, just like magic, a true breeze brushed over the surface of her skin. Her hair stood on end. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back and soaked it in like her Ma’man always told her to. It felt like Pryor himself touched her and she shivered. She opened her eyes to find the heat in the air around them was nothing compared to the heat coming at her from that gaze.

All of a sudden, she didn’t care about propriety, didn’t care that she hardly knew him and she completely pushed aside the worry that he’d lied to her yesterday. Everything in that gaze said he wanted her. A lot. She wanted to be on him or against him. Heat or not. So she relished his look of shock when she walked around to the other side of the hammock and stopped the swaying so she could climb in. She stretched out next to him. Her movements put them back into the gentle swing as she slid her thigh over his and placed her palm on his stomach.

He seemed to stop breathing and she tilted her head back so she could see his face. He’d closed his eyes, but that faint trace of pain showed up in the lines of tension between his eyebrows.

“You know, we’re in danger of sticking to each other for life here,” he murmured.

“Melting into you wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” she whispered.

And underneath her palm, his muscles tightened. She spread her fingers, wishing she had the nerve to slide her hand under the material of his shirt. She’d come this far, hadn’t she? She rested her cheek on his chest, listened to the sound of his heart picking up. She slid her hand along the bottom of his T-shirt, then under the material to rest her palm against the hot skin of his abdomen. The tickle of hair beneath his belly button against her palm made her catch her breath. She stroked it, loving the silky softness of it under her fingertips.

“Melt into each other.” His voice, again low and rumbly. “Have to admit I love the sound of that.” He curled his hand around her hip, pulled her lower body harder against his. “So, what made you come back early?”

She didn’t want to ruin the mood. Didn’t want to focus on something other than the feel of his muscles and heat against her. She rubbed her bare leg over his, loving the fuzzy hair there as well.

“Elita?” He lifted her chin so she had to look at him. “I thought you were going to call and give me your number.”

“I did call. You never answered.” She grinned. “But I called the house phone and it looks like you’ve spent most of the day outside. I can’t believe how much you got done. You must have started pretty early.”