Sixpence & Whiskey (10 page)

But when his heated gaze finally drops to the bandage covering my left side, it goes cold. His voice is even rougher than normal when he says, “Who the fuck did this to you?”

“Me, myself and my big sister. It’s just a tattoo, Jack. Jesus.”

A line forms between his brows. “Bullshit. You’re a baby about needles.” Is there nothing this man doesn’t remember about me? Dammit.

“I lost a bet. Ask Jett if you don’t believe me.” I remember not to give Rochie away even though it’s hard to think clearly, or at all. I am uber-aware of his hand gripping my hip. In my low-rise jeans, that means most of the warm, rough strength of his fingers is on my bare skin. I can’t breathe properly with this man touching me, and damned if I want him noticing the way my nipples have tightened up.

Jack releases me, eyeing the bandage in disbelief one last time. He draws his gaze back up to my face. “It’s as big as my goddamn hand. What is it of?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound. And again, none of your business,” I snap, pulling my shirt down. I move back and almost fall into my chair, my pulse still racing. “Now if you’re through molesting me, get out. I have inventory to do.”

“No.”

“No, you’re
not
through molesting me?” I ask, unable to resist needling him.

“If you didn’t want to play, maybe you shouldn’t have kissed me last night,” he shoots back, a hint of temper in that dark voice.

I look away, gathering the ordering forms someone placed oh-so nicely on my desk with a bright-pink sticky reading: 
Fill out and fax today.
PLEASE.

Shit, I’m late. I always insist on doing inventory myself. I love it. Benji wants to go to this electronic ordering system, but I like the hands-on approach. Knowing every bottle I have behind the bar and in the storerooms is important to me. He says it’s a power trip, but whatever.

I shuffle through the forms, unable to focus, because inside I feel fury building, as it always seems to do around Jack lately. It occurs to me, if I really
do
go psycho at some future point, I bet cash money it’ll have something to do with the man sitting across from me.

If anyone is gonna make me turn the world inside out, it’ll be Jack. 

The thought makes me even more frustrated. “Oh, piss off, Jack. We’ve shared plenty of kisses over the years. What’s one more?”

He straightens in a way that sends a warning tingle up my spine, but something reckless has a hold on me.

Something that is likely to bite my ass. But I don’t care, I need to lash out and shock someone—to shake someone up the way I’ve been shaken this week. One James Bond martini coming up with Jack’s name on it.

“Of course, not one of them meant much of anything, did they? Wasn’t it…eight years ago, you showed up on New Year’s and kissed me at midnight? In a mask. At Syana’s party. You didn’t think I knew it was you, but I knew.”

I catch a glimpse of the blood draining from his face before I turn back to the paperwork in front of me. The paperwork I can’t even see anymore. I’ve never spoken of his ‘visits,’ not to anyone.

I hardly admitted they happened to myself.

“Seven years ago, it was my birthday, right? I fell asleep in the hammock out back. I don’t really remember that one, but I woke up with your taste on my mouth.”

I hear him swallow, but I don’t look up. “Six years ago it was spring break, down in New Orleans. Another masquerade. You seem to like them. Five years ago…” My voice catches. Five years ago was the icehouse. That was the one that finally forced me to admit the visits were real. I can’t think about the icehouse. I
won’t.

“Seph—”

I talk over him, stubbornly picking up a pencil and checking off the premium liquors we’re low on. “—and the last time you threw a friend of mine into the lake, gave me a lousy-ass kiss and vanished. Over four years ago.”

“You remember that one, too?” I glance up to see something flash in his eyes. He’s gotten some color back, but he’s still pale enough that those eyes and the shadow of his unshaven jaw stand out starkly.

I shrug, looking back down at the papers on my desk. “In a matter of speaking.”

“That ‘friend’ is no more than a monster in human form and it wasn’t a lousy kiss.”

“Styx is no monster, and he was helping me. Thanks to you, I haven’t seen him since. And that kiss was too lousy. It fucking sucked.”

“You were indisposed, as I recall.” His shady way of saying I was hammered. Back then I was hammered a lot. “And it was not a lousy kiss, Seph.” He leans over the desk, gaze narrowing. I pretend to ignore him, which is hard, because damn, that piney smell of his has my tummy doing loop-de-loops. But I calmly tuck a wayward lock of hair behind my ear, continuing to check off inventory without seeing a word of what I’m ordering.

“Maybe for you.”

“
Princess
…”
His tone is a warning. I set my pencil down and push my glasses back into place firmly.

“Gosh, this seems to be upsetting you, Jack. Why would that be? Because you finally realize that I’m not a complete idiot? That I knew you’ve been sneaking around for years, playing more of your twisted games—”

“It was never a game.”

“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right. A game implies all players know the rules. But I’ve always been in the dark about
those
pesky details.”

It seems being in the dark has been kind of a theme for me. My hands are shaking. I’ve gone from being—if not exactly the most emotionally even person in the world—to positively volatile these past few days. Innate magic buzzes on my skin like static electricity, looking for someone to zap.

Obviously done, Jack gets to his feet, heading for the door. I can’t resist a parting shot.

“I gotta ask, did you really have to rub it in? To prove to yourself how easily you could reel me back in, despite everything? Did making me respond give you some sort of sick satis—”

“Shut up, Seph.” He switches direction so fast it takes my breath away, making his way behind the desk. I push back, but he leans over before I can get up. His hands latch onto the arms of my rolling chair, yanking me to him until his face is only inches away, jaw set. Apparently, he’s way pissed. I can see the dark-green ring around his grey irises. Irises that are rapidly being swallowed by black. A big hand wraps around the back of my neck, pulling me forward and up, closing that last bit of space between us. “There was only one reason why I came back all those times. And it had nothing to do with any goddamn game.”

When I start to shake my head, strong fingers tangle in the hair at my nape, holding me still and shutting me up. Jack studies my face, his own full of an intensity that suddenly scares the shit out of me. “I came back because I couldn’t fucking
help
it.”

Despite the goose bumps skittering down my arms, I don’t believe him. I can’t.

“Jack—”

His mouth brushes mine, featherlight, stopping the words in my throat. I should slap him. I even raise my hand, but…

The taste of his breath is smoky and dark, the smell of winter fires. He keeps the pressure light as his lips explore mine. So soft. A slow, sweet tease that draws me in. My eyelids flutter closed, head falling helplessly back into the cradle of his palm. Tingling waves of pleasure spread over my skin as Jack deepens the kiss. My nipples tighten again, raising the fine hairs on the backs of my arms.

When I sigh, his tongue takes advantage, slipping into my mouth, sensuous and warm. My tension melts away. Leisurely,
thoroughly,
Jack kisses me, branding me with his tongue and lips. Owning me with every rough scrape of his stubble against my skin, every nip of his teeth as he sinks them into my lower lip, every pull of his fingers wrapped in my hair.

Heat tugs at my insides, turning them to liquid need. I don’t even realize my hands have latched onto his coat until Jack pulls away ages later, forcing me to release him. He lets his hand trail from my hair, gently smoothing the waves he’s tangled as I slide back into my chair. I’m surprised I don’t melt into a puddle on the floor, my body feels that boneless. He straightens to loom above me once again. I have no idea what’s going through his mind as he looks at me staring up at him. He reaches down to trace my lower lip with his forefinger. Just like I did to him the other night.

The silence rings in my ears, but I don’t break it. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Finally, Jack just turns and walks out.

“Well, that wasn’t lousy,” I breathe to the empty room when I get my voice back.

The kiss four years ago wasn’t either—duh, Jack isn’t capable of giving a lousy kiss—but he deserved me saying that. If for nothing else than because that visit was the last time I saw Jack Frost before he showed up in the train yard. I hated myself for it, but I’d missed those little moments he’d stolen over the years.

I’d never stopped looking for him. Never. No matter how many guys I fooled around with. It was always Jack’s shadow I was looking for over their shoulders.

Damn him.

17

The
next week passes in a blur. I’m still trying to piece together everything that’s been going on lately and put it in the light of my chat with Ana. I’ve hit up Jett and Carly, too. Or tried to. Ana warned me they wouldn’t be any help and now I know why. More of Mom’s bullshit.

Jett refuses to talk about the subject at all, and Carly just gives me these vague smiles, talking about everything working out in the end while she paints away. I’m getting nowhere with either of them and it’s frustrating as hell. Mom must have told them something, given them rules about interfering, just like she did with Ana. It reminds me that no matter how much fun my mom was, no matter how good for a laugh she could be, she was also infuriating, weaving complex puzzles no one could see the point of but her.

Rochie turned up to tell me she did a couple of fly-bys on the wolves, but saw nothing interesting other than a nasty fight between Luna and Owen that ended with Luna taking off into the woods with a couple of her betas. I know those two fight a lot, so it’s not like that’s particularly enlightening information.

On top of all that, Tyr has turned surly and rude. His attitude worsens each time I visit the basement. He won’t tell me anything more about his mission, or the motives of the Dark Council. I get that he’s pissed about being held prisoner (even though he totally deserves it). I also know that if I’m not going to kill him I have to let him go. The only reason I haven’t yet is because I have this feeling he holds the answer I’m looking for.

I just don’t know the right question yet.

I’ve also been looking for Merry. I want to have a talk with the gnome about what happened that night in Brighton Beach. Despite what Jack said, I can’t really believe Merry set me up. Oh, I believe Merry is capable of it, but for Owen? No fucking way the gnomes would work that closely with werewolves. But it is suspicious, and I’d love a word with my favorite lawn ornament, only he’s nowhere to be found. I even trekked up to Enger Tower last night to try and snag someone to find him for me.

Enger Tower is a lookout tower built on the top of the hill that overlooks Duluth. It’s another tourist attraction and there’s a lovely park, even a Zen garden up there, but that’s all for the crowds during the day. At night, it’s kind of the gnomes’ version of lover’s lane, all these rocky outcroppings where the gnomes take their dates to get hot and heavy.

I felt like a creeper stumbling around up there in the dark with my flashlight, not to mention it was freezing, but gnomes aren’t exactly easy to get ahold of. It’s not as if the little fuckers carry cell phones. No reception underground.

All I got to show for my efforts were a few nearly frostbitten toes, a lot of earth-covered middle fingers shoved in my face and lots of cracks about taking me home for a ‘nap’. I knew Merry wouldn’t keep his damn mouth shut about that. But unfortunately that’s about all I found out. Everyone I cornered clammed up and disappeared whenever I mentioned Merry’s name.

I’d rather be home catching up on sleep after all that, but today is delivery day for Toil & Trouble. I’m stuck on the sidewalk at eight am sharp, shivering in a hoodie, watching the first driver unload our order with Benji.

He’s scheduled our liquor deliveries for the first and third Wednesday of the month. Cordials, wines, beer, all of it. I don’t know how he coordinates it all. Benji is the bomb.

He’s over questioning our new liquor rep, a woman who is far too peppy for this early in the day. They are huddled together, going over the PO sheets I faxed last week after Jack’s visit when I hear footsteps behind me. I know who it is even before I turn, but before I can say a word, Benji calls me over, frowning.

“Why did you order three cases of Jack, Seph?” He’s frowning at the clipboard as the driver wheels past with a very full dolly. “Are we hosting a party I don’t know about?”

“I might’ve gotten…distracted during inventory. My bad.” I fold my arms when I hear the chuckle behind me. Benji shrugs, giving me a long-suffering look and muttering something about joining the twenty-first century before leaving Jack and I alone.

I shake my head as I turn around. “You know he’s going to use this to force me to get those damn hand scanners now.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a troglodyte, Seph.”

“I’m not. I just want to know what’s in my storerooms, dammit.”

We watch another driver roll by with several cases of Cuervo. I catch a glimpse of Benji rubbing the bridge of his nose while Sandy pats his shoulder.

“You know,” I point out when Jack’s lips twitch. “Seventy-five percent of bars fail in their first year—T&T didn’t. That was all me. I may’ve fallen apart for a few years after you…did what you did. But I pulled myself back together. I’m not a fuck up, or a lush, Jack. Whatever you might think.”

His amusement drains away. “That’s not what I think.”

We stare at each other for a second. Despite the hard November sunshine, wind whistles madly down Superior Street, carrying the bitter promise of winter. The king of whom stands in front of me, that familiar smile fading from his lips.

“We need to talk.” Jack lifts a hand and tucks my pink streak behind my ear. My vocal chords are momentarily stunned silent at the casual touch. I swallow, a tiny flame of anger kindling along with the burst of desire inside me. It isn’t fair how he affects me. None of this is fair. And I’m sick of it. I want my mom. I want someone to tell me what the hell is going on and how to fix it. And most of all, I want Jack Frost back where he damn well belongs. In my
past.

“Seriously, Jack? Wendigos, werewolves and assassins trying to kill me. Georg kidnapping me, then going AWOL. And now
you
want a heart to heart? For fuck’s sake, can’t everyone leave me a—”             

“What assassin?” Jack’s fingers fall from my hair, his eyes narrowing to icy slits. I’m not the only one whose moods can change in a flash.

“One of the realm, maybe you’ve heard of him—name of Tyr?”
Everyone
has heard of Tyr. The look on Jack’s face isn’t just recognition, though, it’s stone-cold fury. “He came at me with a sword last week.”

Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, leather straining as his shoulders bunch. He seems to be struggling to keep his voice even. “And where is he now?”

“In my basement. Contemplating the error of his ways.”

“You captured him?”

“No need to sound so damn surprised. I can take care of myself, you know.” I decide it is unnecessary to point out that without Sy and her frying pan it’s likely my head would be in a bag on Tyr’s belt, because hey, Sy’s the one who knocked my spell wonky in the first place and—

“I know what you are capable of, Persephone.” Jack’s earlier smile has vanished and his tone is odd, almost as if it’s another warning. Not to me. But to…himself.

Before I can ask what the hell that means, he’s gone. The breeze whips my hair back over my face and into my mouth, along with the scent of pinecones and smoke.

Fucking son of winds.

“Guess this means our little chat is postponed.” I roll my eyes before heading back into the bar.

Pushing Jack out of my head isn’t as hard as you might think. After all, I’ve gotten lots of practice over the years. I studiously ignore the other delivery men and women coming and going for the rest of the morning. Benji occasionally groans or curses, but doesn’t comment further on our steadily increasing inventory, until around noon, when his curly blond head makes an appearance around my doorframe.

“Seph. The stock room is full. And I got nowhere to put this last order.”

I look up from where I’ve been doodling. Names, mostly. Ana. Tyr. The Dark Council. Mom. Jack. Owen. Luna. Georg.

I don’t know how this all fits together, or even if I’ve got the right pieces, but my mind keeps tracing over and over it all, just like my pen. “Full? C’mon, I didn’t over order
every
thing, did I?”

“Boss, trust that when I say ‘full,’ I mean, you couldn’t fit a goddamned bottle of Bombay in that stock room edgewise, okay? And tonight’s G movie night, so you know the drill.”

I do. Once a month we host a family night. We show a couple movies on the big screens and serve bar food, but no alcoholic drinks so the kiddies can come inside. It’s surprisingly popular. Families come in to do their laundry, teach their kiddos to play pool and foosball, and the jukebox goes non-stop all night.

It also means we’re required to have all liquor locked down tighter than a nun’s ass for the duration.

I nod glumly and he sighs. “I guess, I could haul the rest down to the basement—”

“No!” I leap to my feet. “You’re not allowed in the basement.”

Benji gives me a strange look, so I smile weakly. “I mean, no one is. You could fall—those steps aren’t really up to code—and I don’t want to get sued for worker’s comp.” I force a laugh. “Especially since I’m obviously gonna be a little light in the cash area for awhile.”

“Well, then,” he looks down at the clipboard in his hand, “know anyone who can take two cases of Cuervo off our hands? At cost?”

I do. “Let me make a call.”

To my surprise, when I ring the Den, it’s Georg who picks up on the first ring.

“Hey.” His voice is gruffer than usual. For some reason, I feel a pang of guilt, which is freaking ridiculous after the shit he has pulled, but still…I should’ve called before now. Then again, why the hell didn’t he call me? My throat tightens.

“It’s Seph. I guess you found your way home then, huh?”

“Yup.”

“You okay?”

“Yup.”

The monosyllabic dance gets old fast. “You could’ve had Stephen drop me a line to let me know. Or done it yourself.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
Georg—”

“Oh cut the shit, Seph.” He doesn’t sound mad, just worn out. “We both know you haven’t given a thought to me since Stephen left T&T.”

“That’s not true.” And it isn’t. His name is right in front of me. On the list I was doodling. But, other than how he fits into the highly tenuous suspicions I’m currently having about my mom’s disappearance and why the Dark Council might be after me, Georg is right. I’ve been far too busy to worry about him. “Are you really okay? Jett’s magic can have nasty side effects—”

“I’m fine, Seph. Some friends pulled my ass out of the harbor. I just stayed with them for a few days before going home. Thanks for checking up on me. After two weeks.” The sarcasm cuts so thick it practically takes my ear off.

“You’re a big boy, Georg. You deserved that dunking and you know it.”

“You really think so, do you?”

“Oh, holy horned one, what do you want me to say? ‘Sure, Georg, it’s
fine
you used my ex-lover as a contractor to kidnap me              . And it’s
fine
you haven’t been able to take no for an answer, and it’s
fine
that you’ve managed to ruin our friendship in the process. No problem at all.’ That what you want to hear?”

“So, now we’re not even friends anymore?” If possible his voice grows even gruffer.

“Friends
listen
to each other, you thick-headed bruin.”

“You’re right, Seph. Absolutely right. So listen up. Things aren’t always what they seem. You need to open your eyes, sweetheart. Before someone gets hurt. God knows I’ve tried, but you never could see what’s right under your nose.”

“So, is it my nose or my eyes I need to open? I’m confused.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell are.”

Before I can ask him to clarify, the phone goes dead. He hung up. Georg never hangs up on me.

And I didn’t get to run what Tyr said by him. Or offer him the damn alcohol.

Serves him right. But Georg doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. I do. A part-time lover—sure, that’s one thing. But more importantly, a friend. One of the only males I could ever trust.

That changed completely this past year, of course, but I never really asked myself why. I thought he was just pissed about the proposal deal, but I never looked too closely at why he proposed in the first place. Yeah, Georg has a bit of a crush on me, and yeah, bruins do like their kings settled. Even so, Georg is pretty young yet, older than me by a couple years, but still this side of thirty.

Why
was
he so all-fired ready to take that step? And why did he get so frustrated when I said no? I attributed it to macho shifter bullshit, but what if it was more?

I add it to the growing list of
shit I should probably figure out someday soon
and move on.

I end up having Benji put the damn tequila in the Fiat. Both cases won’t              fit in the back, so I have him put one in the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt to hold the damn thing in place. Click it or ticket, right? I contemplate drawing a mustache and sombrero on the box, but I restrain myself.

“This is gonna look real weird if you get pulled over,” Benji observes.

“I never get pulled over.” And I never will. The scrollwork in the glove box makes sure of that. “I’ll leave them at the house tonight and we’ll be golden.”