Swallow the Moon (10 page)

He needed the wind in his hair, not a bitch stealing his air.

He cranked the bike up and shot out of the garage, laying it low as he took the turn onto the street. He was done with her, done with rules, done with hiding out.

"I got the need for speed," he chanted as he ran through the gears. The highway beckoned; he gave her enough throttle to make her scream.

Miles of pavement slipped away. He arrived at Geneva-on-the-Lake in an hour – spent the evening eating hot pizza and drinking cold beer.

Hours later, heading south through the outskirts of Cleveland, an SUV came on fast. He checked his mirrors over and over, watching it grow until he could hear the engine.

"Let's lose these scumbags, baby," he muttered as he cranked her out.

"Godammit!" He flicked a glance over his shoulder as the door to the SUV opened up, smacked him in the leg, sending him careening off balance, unable to slow for the curve.

The thud of a glass hitting the bar to Eric's left made him jump, heart pounding in his chest. He was alive, in a bar, with a massive headache.

"Jake, haven't seen you in a long time." The blonde barmaid gave him a sultry look and a smile. "How've you been?"

"My name is Eric." He took the draft beer and handed her a couple of bucks.

"Ooh." She gave him a knowing look as she made change. "Whatever –
Eric
."

No more mirrors – or nosy barmaids. He'd had enough for one day. Eric turned his back on the damn mirror, grabbing his jacket and sunglasses. To the left of the hallway was a double bank of tables and windows that looked out over the street. Perfect, he could see everything from there – the door, stairs, bar
and
keep his back to the wall.

It wasn't easy to drink a beer with shaking hands, but he managed. Another freaking hallucination – was he nuts or was it the pills? He was
not
losing his mind. The head-shrink warned him about flashbacks – so it was no big deal. He just needed to flush the pills.

The barmaid wandered back to ask him if he needed anything. Just to be perverse, he ordered a Snakebite and another beer. As he tossed back the shot, a guy about his age came down the stairs. The guy was clean-shaven with a military haircut; he moved with a decided limp.

"Hey," Eric called to him. "What're the rooms upstairs like?"

"Small; this is hardly Hotel Six." The guy sized Eric up. "Beats sleeping in the dirt."

"Been there, done that." They both nodded.

"Tyler Smith." The guy held out his hand.

"Eric Macmillan."

"You a vet?" Tyler's eyes assessed Eric.

"Yeah, Afghanistan. You?"

"Iraq. Same shit, different sandbox." He thumped his thigh with his knuckles. It made a plastic noise. "The rag-heads didn't leave me much, one leg and a plate in my head. At least I get a check every month."

"I hear you." Eric nodded. "Is there any work around here?"

"You can't buy a job in this stinking rat-hole town."

"It's like that everywhere." Eric shrugged. "Who do I talk to about the room?"

"The owner, Peggy Lee, comes in around eight." He gave Eric a sharp look. "Stay on her good side. She doesn't take crap from anybody."

"Good to know."

"Don't eat here, Rosa burns everything." Tyler flicked his eyes at the barmaid. "Hulbert's has better food." He gestured towards the bridge. "Zall's will give you a deal on a sandwich and a beer." Tyler gave Eric a wave that could have been half-assed salute. "See you around."

Eric nursed his beer as he waited for the owner to come in. A woman came out of the kitchen with a couple of boys in tow. She walked behind the bar, immediately taking control. Betting she was the owner, Eric walked back to the bar to talk to her.

They made eye contact; she tilted her head and gave him a come-on smile.

"Help you?"

"You got any rooms open?"

"Yeah." She walked over, a tall woman near sixty. "Have we met?"

"No." Eric held out his hand. "Eric Macmillan."

"Peggy Lee." She grasped his hand firmly. The two boys sidled closer. "These are my grandsons, Sean and Zack."

Eric shook hands with the two boys; they looked him over solemnly. 

"I've got some things to finish here." Peggy Lee turned to her grandsons. "Zack, take him up to room Two. Sean, get him some sheets."

"Yes, Gram!" The boys jumped off their stools. The taller, Sean, ducked behind the bar, the smaller one grinned at Eric.

"Follow me."

They went up the front stairs. Room Two was a plain white ten by ten box with a single bed, a dresser, a chair and a small window. The bare mattress was clean. It was an improvement over some of the places he'd been.

Eric thought of June's cozy guestroom, the hot kiss they'd shared, and sighed. Should've kept his head together in the garage; instead he ran like a damn fool. Most likely it was for the best – if she thought she was a witch, she had bigger problems than he did.

None of today's freaky crap was real. A bad body blow, a possible concussion on top of too many pills explained the hallucinations, flashbacks and strange dreams. Maybe he'd seen too many scary movies?

"So, do you want the room?" Zack stood in the doorway like an adult three times his age. Sean appeared behind him, a pile of clean linens in his hands.

"Sure."

"That's fifty bucks." Zack gave him the key. "You can pay Gram downstairs."

Sean slipped in to lay the linens on the bed.

"Keep the door locked." Zack warned as he handed over the key. "Some people will steal anything that isn't red hot or nailed down."

Turning away, Eric covered his mouth to hide his smile. Were these kids or midgets? After locking the room, he went downstairs, paid Peggy Lee for a week, then went outside to secure the bike.

Eric parked the bike in the farthest corner of the Iroquois lot, chained it to a gas meter, then lugged his bag to the room. With the door locked behind him, Eric shed his scuffed and dirty leathers in favor of jeans and a t-shirt.

The leathers were a mess. Using a dirty sock, he cleaned them off.

It was time to make a game plan. Van Man Go was next door – he had a place to stay for the present. This looked like a good place to hang for awhile – except for the rednecks who tried to kill him.

If June hadn't hidden his miserable ass in the ditch, it would be all over. Those assholes were still out there. Did they know about June? Would she be in trouble for helping him?

What had happened in her garage? She'd just laid one hot lip-lock on him, not ten minutes before he ran out on her. What the hell was wrong with him?

He didn't know.

So he went downstairs and proceeded to get drunk.

~^~

October 3
^rd
– Ashtabula, Ohio

Monday morning, June slapped the alarm clock off the nightstand. She'd barely closed her eyes all night, while her imagination replayed that knock-your-socks-off kiss.

Rags yawned and stretched, Tasha was already standing by the door.

Coffee – she needed coffee. June padded down the stairs, let the dogs out and made coffee. On auto-pilot, she went through her morning routine and drove to work.

Cooking breakfast was so sweet – Eric could even make good coffee. He was a nice guy. Too bad he was just passing through. She couldn't really blame him for running like that. First those rednecks nearly killed him, then he got trapped in a pentagram with Cora. That blasted Cora was the nastiest spirit June had ever encountered. Uncle Ralph's ghost wasn't in the same league.

No matter how good he looked without a shirt or how well he kissed, an unemployed biker was not her soul mate. If only she could shake off that incredible kiss.

Sliding into her desk with minutes to spare, June forced herself to focus on the work in front of her. She couldn't afford to be distracted.

"I want these taken care of." Ryan Phillips came into her cube, tossing a stack of invoices in the general direction of her inbox. "I trust no further instructions will be necessary."

"Yes, sir."

"Make sure I'm not disturbed again." The tone of his voice gave her visions of flannel shirts and ball caps. No inquisitive heads popped up from the cubes. Everyone knew better. He strode down the hall to his office; the door slammed.

June gnashed her teeth. Here she was doing her job, trying to keep the plant open while the profits skated out the back door. She thought about the red can cozy and shuddered. Someone in the plant had tried to kill Eric – for kicks.

This time she paid the odd invoices, but first she scanned the odd ones to her thumb drive. No matter what was going on, she wasn't taking the blame for it.

When she opened her purse to put the flash drive away, she found three red rose petals. She picked one up, bought it to her nose. It was real, soft and fragrant. Where had they come from? There was a whisper of a touch to her hair. Her friendly ghost was back.

June smiled to herself. Wasn't that romantic? Now he knew how to treat a lady. Her soul mate would do things like that. Little gifts and sweet gestures went a long way to win a woman's heart. She left the rose petals on her desk, touching them often.

June always sat with Melissa the receptionist for lunch. All the visitors, phone calls and mail went through her. Melissa had the dish on everyone in the plant – and wasn't stingy about sharing it.

Today, June had the juicy stuff to share for once.

"This guy ran his bike off the road in front of my house Friday night." June grinned at Melissa. "I had to call 911 to pick him up."

"Really?" Melissa grinned. "Was this biker cute?"

"Yeah, a shaggy sort of cute." June giggled. "I let the cops park his bike at my house so it wouldn't get towed"

"Was he like – grateful?" Melissa eyes were as round as saucers.

"Oh yeah," June admitted, blushing a bit. "He was pretty beat up. I let him hang out on Saturday so he could get his bike running."

"Are you going to see him again?"

June giggled – ready to shake her head and say 'no,' but the word would not pass her lips. Instead she had a vision of him, helmet in hand, standing at her door. She
would
see Eric again.

"He's just passing through town."

"What a bummer!" Melissa flipped her hair back. "Maybe you can get him to change his mind.

June shrugged. There was so much more to the story; she wished she could tell Melissa about the SUV, the ghosts and the circle, but Melissa couldn't keep secret to save her life. Anything June told her would be all over town in a matter of minutes.

~^~

October 3
^rd
– Ashtabula Harbor

Eric sat up, his mouth as dry as the sandpits of Afghanistan, his head pounding like mortar fire. Streetlights lit his room from outside, the sky was still dark. The habit of getting up before dawn was hard to break.

He stretched experimentally, expecting to feel the effects of the accident on top of the hangover. He was sore – shoulders, ribs, hips and thighs but the stabbing pain from the previous morning was gone. Curious, he ran his hands over his hip. Yesterday morning he'd been bruised to the bone. The swelling was gone, the bruises faint shadows. His skin itched a bit but the bulk of the damage was healed.

How?

He had no clue.

He got cleaned up and dressed. The bar was still closed, so he left via the back stairs. He wanted coffee and something to eat. Eric walked up Bridge Street to the bakery on Lake Avenue, the only place open this time of day. He drank enough coffee to float a boat in an attempt to get rid of his hangover.

When that didn't work he walked down to the beach. Walnut Beach was a deserted stretch of white sand, open and inviting. Gulls wheeled overhead or bobbed in the water. Waves broke on massive stone blocks or sandy shoreline. He crossed two parking lots to a span of grass and sand. The grass was stiff with frost, the wind chilly as the dawn broke on the water.

In spite of the cold air, the flat sand was irresistible. He kicked off his shoes and ran a mile down the beach on cold hard sand. Wavelets chased his feet, gulls started from the shore to wheel overhead.

He ran, focused on the moment, cold air, cold water, hard sand under his bare feet. He covered a mile in good time – kept going for another mile before he stopped. He caught his breath for a moment before he turned around. He took the two miles back at a better pace. Felt his head clear as his blood sang through his body.

It was glorious.

Now he felt human. He spent the rest of the morning walking up and down Lake Avenue, finding a diner at one end and a library at the other. He could eat, get internet and he had a place to run. Funny, his idea of 'good enough' had changed in the past three years.