The Gift (34 page)

"Heads up!"

He would swear later that he felt the bullet fly past him before he even noticed the girl in the doorway. It clipped Anton's side, ripping him open, tearing his shirt and leaving a trail of red-hot blood on white cotton. Using Anton's frozen moment of shock, August twisted away and pushed Anton back against the wall. He dropped to a crouch and crab-ran towards Doren. The second bullet shattered into the wall, showering Anton with sharp rock.

"Doren, quick!" he gasped, grabbing both of Doren's shoulders. "Get out of the way!"

She walked past the stunned men without a glance. Her gaze was for Anton alone. She didn't speak. She didn't have to. She felt him inside her, reaching, questioning—desperately trying to figure out why. She waited for that understanding to dawn on his face and when it did, she lifted the handgun and shot a bullet directly into it. The sound was deafening. But nothing was more satisfying than the final slump of flesh on concrete as Anton's body slid to the floor.

She turned to the crowd behind her, finding Doren's eyes first. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "but you need to go now."

He reached, choking on emotion. "Medea, come with us. We can protect you."

She shook her head. "I can't. Morana wanted that boy dead, remember? And if I take the time to think about it I just might make sure that wish is fulfilled. Go. Your salvation here is over."

They stared at the mansion, engulfed in flames. How quickly it had started. How quickly it had raged. As Dawson had led them through the corridors at full run, the pressure had built behind them. They had felt it grow and swell and the heat had soared until they felt their skin turn red within their clothing and the hair on their heads singe. And how Medea could have even managed it was beyond their reasoning. Even with the candles, even with the cloth from the altar or the clothing on their bodies, the entire structure had been rock. How could a fire travel through solid rock?

"I think we better get out of here," Curtis said. "Before someone shows up and starts to ask questions."

Cooper released a long shaky breath, staring. "That poor girl."

"She made her own choices, Coop," Doren told him. "Let it go, buddy."

"But we could have saved her too," he said wistfully. "We should have tried. She was so ... sad."

"She did what she needed to do. And she wasn't the innocent you're thinking she was." Doren reached behind and gave Cooper's hair a quick yank, winking at him. "Everything's going to be okay."

"Yeah, I know," Cooper said finally, shuddering as though trying to shake away the memory. "But I just got one question."

"Of course," Doren said. "Anything."

"Well," Cooper pulled another long breath and caught Doren's gaze, holding it with a serious expression. "Which one of us gets to be the best man?"

Doren tsk'd and smacked him in the back of the head. "Control yourself!"

They walked past the iron gates, suddenly joking like none of it had ever happened, and August was the only one that couldn't find it in him to play along. All he wanted to do was get home. Get home and think and plan. He jumped when his cell phone began to ring, dropping Doren's hand and slipping behind the group when he saw the name on the display. "Diana?"

Diana's voice was hushed, "August? Is everything—"

"Everything's fine. I think. Well, everyone here is fine anyway." He paused, struggling for the right words. "Anton's dead."

The sigh she gave him seemed wrong somehow. Celebratory. Relieved. Death should not be met with a reaction like that, August was sure of it.

"Well, some things can't be helped. And Doren?"

"He's all right. He'll be all right." August bit his lip and eyed Doren's back. "So what now?"

Diana chuckled. "What do you mean?"

August's frown deepened and he snapped his reply. "What do you mean, what do I mean? What do we do now? What about the contract? What about the band? What about everything?"

"What contract?" Diana asked sweetly. "Funny thing about that contract, August. I've been looking for a copy of it everywhere but I can't find a single one. Not even a draft. Weird, hmm? That they would send Doren all that way and not even get him to sign a contract first?"

Diana's voice sounded oddly amused.

"But …" August stopped, confused. "I have a copy of it with me. Signed. By both of them. Witnessed, even."

Diana's voice dropped. "Then, darling, I suggest you get rid of it. Burn it until its nothing but ash."

Her voice picked up, lighter again. "And you know what else, August? It seems someone tipped off the studios down here that Doren's running free without bindings. After that show I bet he's going to be hounded with calls, now!"

August didn't know whether to be surprised or angry. "You did this, didn't you?"

"August, honey, some questions are better left unasked. For now, though, I've got to go. Maybe we'll talk when you get back to town."

"Good plan," he nodded. "But I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a damn lot of questions that you won't want to answer. I know I will, in fact."

Oh!" Diana exclaimed, ignoring his comment. "I almost forgot. Do you think you and Doren could bring the Lotus back to the studio? Now that Anton won't be requiring it anymore? A little road trip, maybe?"

He disconnected the call and looked up to see that Doren had stopped walking, waiting patiently a few feet ahead. August closed the distance between them and Doren wrapped August in his arms. "It's okay, baby," Doren said, lifting August's hand to kiss his knuckles, "some answers I don't need to know right now. There's time."

He had to admit; the Lotus was a pretty sweet ride. Sure, he'd believed Doren when Doren said it was nice, he just hadn't realized how cool "nice" was—even if they had taken turns adjusting the volume knob on the stereo for the first hour of the trip, an effort towards peace and quiet that was only shoved aside when August got sick of doing it.

"You know," August hollered over the radio, "if I'd known you were planning on driving like Mario Andretti I would have opted to ride in the bus."

"What?" Doren yelled back, feigning dismay. "And miss all this stimulating conversation?"

They grinned at each other and Doren grabbed for August's hand, holding it on the shifter underneath his own. August rested his head back on the seat, watching Doren's face through peripheral vision. It still bugged him, what Anton had said. Had he been lying about the paternity? Or was there actually something to it? August searched Doren's features, like he'd done a dozen times in the past couple of days, caught between trying to pick out similarities and trying to prove it was all crap.

Doren nodded at the windshield, tightening his hand over top of August's. "What?"

"Nothing," August smiled. "Just thinking how hot you are."

"Oh," Doren said, turning down the stereo. "By all means continue then."

August opened his mouth to retort when Doren's phone began to peal. "Yello," Doren answered, grinning at his humor, getting nothing more than a roll of eyes as reward for it. "Okay, yeah, this is he."

A long pause followed while August searched Doren's expression for information. "Well, now's not really a good time to talk. But rest assured that I've decided not to sign the contract the current studio was offering."

More silence followed and August shifted, stared, and fidgeted like a toddler.

"Tell you what," Doren said finally. "You work something up that I just can't refuse and we'll talk then."

August's eyebrows rose up his forehead and he grabbed a pen that was waved away when he offered it. "Well, you obviously have my number so I won't need yours, will I? Let me know if you'd like us to come in and see you." He paused and then grinned into the phone. "Yeah, us. I've got my own assistant, you see, so if you want me to look at your offer, you make sure that's in there. Oh, and my band. I don't go anywhere without my band."

August lifted Doren's hand and kissed it, thrilling at the silent "Ooh" that Doren pursed his lips into. With a salacious smile, August licked the end of his thumb.

"Well those are both take it or leave it issues so they're not open for discussion," Doren said, his eyes flicking between August's mouth and the windshield. "And while we're discussing all the things you're going to hate about me? I have some fine print for you, too. They work for me—the assistant and the band—not your studio. Be sure you figure that in as well."

He didn't even realize Doren was pulling over until he heard the crunch of gravel under the tires. He slammed the shifter into neutral and set the emergency brake. "So, I'll leave you to ponder that as you see fit. It appears that I have an emergency to take care of here." He drew the fist August was teasing closer, towards his lap, smirking at August's lifted eyebrow. "No, I don't need any help. Nope, no ambulance either. It's a totally different kind of emergency."

Doren dropped the phone and grabbed August's wrist when August began to pull back to his own seat. "Oh, no you don't. No starting what you can't finish, Aug."

August didn't even argue. He leaned to meet the kiss, rolling his tongue into Doren's mouth the minute both their lips met, while his hand worked into Doren's lap.

"Aw, yeah," Doren mumbled. "That tastes fine, indeed." He stilled, tilted his head, and offered August a look full of amusement. "Hey, Auggie? You hear that?"

"You know something? I do." August pulled Doren's lip into his mouth and sucked it once before letting it go. "Sounds an awful lot like a love song."

"Yeah," Doren sighed, both hands finding the side of August's head, Doren's lips working to travel every inch of his jaw and his cheek. "Sounds like forever."

Henley was born with a full-blown passion for run-on sentences, a zealous indulgence in all words descriptive, and the endearing tendency to overuse punctuation. Since the early years Henley has been an enthusiastic writer, from the first few I-love-my-dog stories to the current leap into erotica.

A self-professed Google genius, Henley lives for the hours spent digging through the Internet for ‘research purposes’ which, more often than not, lead seven thousand miles away from first intentions but bring Henley to new discoveries and ideas that, once seeded, tend to flourish.

Henley has been proudly working with LT3 since 2012, and has been writing like mad ever since—an indentured servant to the belief that romance and true love can mend the most broken soul. Even when presented in prose.

Comments, kudos and signature card requests are happily received at afhenley.com.