The Trouble with Fate (12 page)

Oh, he liked that. At the touch of my fingers, he made a noise in the back of his
throat, part growl, part masculine hmm, and teased my parted lips with his.

I stopped worrying about my frolicking inner Were. I let go of caution, and common
sense. I surrendered to the awesomely incendiary combination of me and him.

His tongue stroked mine. So strange, so … intimate.

Go ahead, for a minute or two wallow in the full experience of THIS
 … There was no pain, no need to grit my teeth as I waited for the hurt to pass. Tears
built at the pure, simple freedom of it.
Remember this:
a man’s chest under my body, lifting me with each of his heavy breaths.
Never forget this:
the scent of him—his whiskey breath, his shampoo, his wood-fragrant Were skin. See?
No hurt. No pain. Just … him. Oh Goddess.
This
was what they talked about. So simple. Bodies lined up. Hip to hip, swollen breast
to hard chest. Legs entwined.
This
was what everyone else had. Schoolgirls, grown-up women, even old ladies with their
faded smiles.

The need grew inside me. I trembled on the brink of full capitulation, and then—as
one does when their toes are hanging over a bottomless crevice—I took a mental cautious
step backward.
If you stay one more minute in his arms, it’s over,
common sense told me
. All those years of hiding from the Weres—both the Creemore ones and the little bitch
buried inside you—they’ll mean nothing. And soon—maybe in another second or two—he
might discover that he’s not holding just a woman, or even another Were.

He might look at you like they used to.

My tongue withdrew from the cavern of his mouth. I slid my hand away from his tempting
curls, forced my fingers to stop stroking his jaw.

“Baby?” he muttered, puzzled. I strained from his hold.

Trowbridge pulled the blindfold off and squinted blearily against the light. I knew
what I was going to do—my knee was already poised—and yeah, maybe I was already regretting
what was surely going to come next. Just before I let loose the knee-from-hell, the
phone in my pocket chirruped.

His eyes shot fully open. Black lashes around sharpening blue eyes.

“Your phone’s ringing,” I said.

The two lines between his brows deepened into crevasses.

“You going to get that?”

He glanced at the side table.

Then I brought my knee down hard.

Chapter Six

“Jesus,” he roared, rolling into a fetal ball of woe.

I made it off the bed and three feet in the direction of the door before he tackled
me. “Oooph,” I said, collapsing under his smothering weight. Oh shit, I couldn’t even
inhale under him. It’s those Were bones, you know. Think about it. All sorts of strange
shit must be in them to allow Weres to elongate and reshape themselves monthly.

There was a frantic mouse squeaking in the room. Dimly, because—oh crap—the light
was really fading, I realized
I
was the mouse. He was the trap, and I was going to die with my cheek ground into
the floor, choking on dust mites. The scent memory I’d have before the trip to the
other side would be whiskey, Were, and the musty odor of old sex.

And then, thank you Goddess, he got off me. I took a grateful breath, dust mites and
all. His fingers bit into my shoulder as he rolled me over.

“You thieving bitch,” he shouted as he straddled me. His beautiful face was ugly with
rage.

I squeezed my eyes shut as he drew back a fist to hit me. Once again, air whooshed
by my head, but this time there was no pain. Just a loud splintering thump right by
my ear. “Fuck,” I heard him say over my head. His weight lifted off me. I sucked in
some air. With my bruised lungs, it was like sucking a milkshake through a tiny straw.

He was doing a boxer’s cha-cha three-step by my head, alternately swearing and flexing
his red knuckles. “Shit,” he cursed. “Shit.”

My heart was banging away so hard in my chest that I was sure he could hear it. I
didn’t want him to. I didn’t want anyone to ever hear my heart like that—all defenseless
and frantic. I rolled onto my side and curled my arms around my chest.

I could see him, standing by the door. Trowbridge had gone from nursing his hand to
holding his head as if it pained him. He kicked the chair with his bare foot, and
then limped over to the windows. He pulled the curtain aside. Turned his head to this
side and that, searching for bad guys. Tested the air with his nose with sharp urgent
inhales that made his nostrils flare like a racehorse’s on its last lap. Managed to
resemble a freakin’ dog doing it.

When my heart settled down, the rest of my body started sending in damage reports.
Lungs, functioning. Ribs, painful. Hip, being bruised by something hard. By what?
I swept my fingers under my hip and felt the cool smooth surface of Fae gold. The
amulet was larger and heavier than Merry. It felt dead. There was no intelligence
to it, no response to my Fae blood. Trowbridge was still watching the parking lot.
Quickly, I jammed the amulet into the hoodie’s pocket while Merry scrambled over my
shoulder, and tunneled down under its neck.

His head swiveled. While I’d been recovering, he’d been doing the same thing. He’d
brought himself down from mad dog to pissed-off male. The frightening wildness had
left his face. His cheekbones still had a flushed residue of heat to them, but his
blue eyes were just dark blue now. When he’d pulled his fist on me, I’d fancied there
was a light burning like a ring of blue fire around his black pupils. An Alpha’s eyes
do that. But he wasn’t an Alpha, because he wouldn’t be alone, he wouldn’t have pulled
back on his punch, and his eyes were just a dark, tired blue.

His gaze roved the room and then returned to me. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Maid service?”

“Be careful, kid, I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.” He stared at me, and
ran the fingers of one of his hands through his hair, before he frowned. “Are you
alone?”

“No. I have friends waiting in the parking lot.”

His nostrils flared. “You’re lying.”

I shrugged. Weres. Some were like breathing lie detectors.

“How did you get in here?”

I pointed a finger to the door.

He went to the dresser. His balance was improving. “There was an alarm.”

I pointed to the bottle lying on the floor and raised one shoulder.

He patted his side, as if checking for his cell phone, which looked ridiculous because
he wasn’t wearing anything other than a white sock, a pair of crumpled briefs, and
an armband of shredded jersey. Absently, he rubbed his neck as he contemplated me,
then his hand froze at his nape. “Where is it?”

“What?”

“My necklace.”

I could have said, “What? The Fae amulet that you don’t have any right to?
That
necklace?” Instead, I shot to my feet and streaked for the door.

I met the door, though a lot harder and faster than I planned. He crushed my five-two
into the cheap-veneered door like a six-foot flatiron. He ran his hands around my
waist, and then down the front of me. I shoved my hand inside my pocket, found the
amulet, and tightened my fist around it.

“Give it.” He fumbled for my hand and slowly pulled it out of the pocket. He didn’t
try to break my fingers or my wrist. The lazy bastard just leaned into me, squeezing
the air out of my chest. I hummed through my nose, writhing between the vise of his
body weight and the unforgiving surface of the door. “Let it go.”

I nodded, but didn’t let go.

He ground into me. Writhing turned into pure frantic wiggling.

“Can’t breathe again,” I choked out.

“Let. It. Go.”

I held on until my vision got spotty.
Then
I let it go.

“Sit.”

I stumbled over to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He inspected the amulet by the
light of the television before placing it around his neck. It was incongruous. All
medieval girlie pendant on a chest that was neither.

He raked his fingers through his hair. “Take off the sweatshirt.”

I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I could pat you down again, but the way I’m feeling right now, they may need to call
911 after I’m finished.”

He had a loud voice that grated on my ears.

I unzipped the hoodie slowly, fussily, using both hands on the zipper, giving Merry
enough time and cover to scoot into her cup. The sweatshirt made a thunk when it hit
the floor. Probably broke my new toy.

“Hands up, do a three-sixty.”

I rotated for him.

“Put your foot on the bed, then lift your pant leg. Show me your ankle … now the other.”
It was like a really bad game of Simon Says.

“Put your knife on the bed, very slowly.”

I scowled at him.

“No knife? Silver, then?” His eyebrows rose, making his forehead crease into two lines.
“You came in here without a weapon? Jesus, I didn’t think anyone would be that dumb.”
He picked up his wallet to riffle through the cards and bills. With a snap of his
fingers, he said, “My cell. Give it now.”

It must be hard to sustain alcoholism as a Were considering their fast metabolism.
Fur-boy had been unsteady on his feet two minutes ago. Now he was all squint-eyed
and evil. I tossed the phone. He caught it one-handed. “Okay, now give me yours.”

Buying time, I brought my hands up to my eyeglass frames and straightened them carefully.
I know it’s a disarming thing because it’s worked on humans for years. I gave Trowbridge
my best Bambi through the frames as I said, “I don’t have one.”

He snorted.

Reluctantly, I pulled out Scawens’s phone. I was going to have to steal it back before
I left this place.

He flipped it open. “So, who’s Eric?”

“My boyfriend.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” He scrolled some more. Then his jaw got hard. He turned
off the phone and took out the battery. “Stand up. Don’t try it with the knee again
or you won’t be able to use your own.” Yeah, all brave Were. He walked up to me sideways
with one hand ready at his hip level. “Put your hands behind your head.”

I clasped them loosely behind my neck, and thought really evil thoughts. My blouse
had a two-button gaping hole below the apex of my boobs, where Merry had torn the
shirt to get access to my heart. The underside of my red-lace-covered breast was exposed,
along with a five-inch strip of white skin. I’d liked the bra when I stole it from
one of the circular racks at Wal-Mart, but now the acrylic lace screamed scratchy,
and the orange-red appeared unpleasantly garish against the contrast of my pale white
skin.

His attention wandered off my face, roamed over my body, then slid to my cheap red
bra long enough to assess my cup size. A muscle tightened in his cheek. I was still
trying to figure out what that meant when he said, “Tell me you’re not a teenage hooker.”

The look I gave him was pure disgust. His body search was perfunctory. Up my sides,
across my waist, down my arms to my wrists. The same hands that had caressed my ass
a couple of minutes ago patted my butt, but this time there was no affection in it.
Trowbridge reached for the hoodie. He never took his eyes off me as he searched through
its pockets.

“Aha,” he said. “The alarm.” Then he pulled my new toy out, and all hell broke loose
in room 6 of the Easy Court Motel.

*   *   *

Sound. Horrible, horrible sound blew through the small room. It was spine-cracking,
eardrum-piercing, body-contorting noise. I screeched and fell to the ground, covering
my ears. Oh Goddess, someone stop the pain. The pain, the pain. My ears.

The noise suddenly stopped. I trembled in the aftermath. “Up,” he said, sounding grim.
I let out a faint moan as he jerked me to my feet by my collar. I really was going
to hurt him. I wasn’t even going to mind the payback pain. Then my stomach—Hedi’s
emotional barometer—took care of any revenge fantasies. I threw up eighteen partially
digested almonds and a bottle of water all over his bare stomach and my pant leg.

“Christ, you’re such a kid,” he said. Big on words, Trowbridge. He used my sweatshirt
to wipe his stomach.

I could feel the vomit on my chin, and used my shirt’s sleeve to wipe it clean.

He winced. “You are ruining my day.”

“It’s night.”

“Detail.” He blew out some hot air. “Come on, kid. I can’t think past the stink of
your puke.” He wrapped his hand around my braid again, but this time instead of fondling
it, he hauled it up high over my head. What do you do when someone tries to lift you
off your feet by your braid? You go on your tippy-toes and hold on to it with both
hands.

And that’s how he frog-walked me to the bathroom.

The bathroom hadn’t changed in the last five minutes. The white sink was still rust
marked. The toilet seat was still up. The thin vinyl shower curtain still hung off
a dull silver rod by metal hooks. There was no window. The only thing by the sink
was a thin rectangle of cheap pink soap. There was nothing I could use.

He shoved me face-first into the wall between the sink and the bathtub and kept me
there, his hand on the back of my head. “Keep your forehead on the wall.”

There was a hiss of water as he turned on the shower. I rolled my eyes to the right.
The dial was set on blue, not red. The cold spray started to wet the back of my leg
and the floor.

“Don’t move.”

I watched from the corner of my eye, as Trowbridge leaned over the sink, let some
water run and slurped up several handfuls before he was satisfied. He glanced at himself
in the mirror, without doing any of the rearranging most of us do. He didn’t widen
his eyes, or lift his chin, or suck in his cheeks. His face was neutral, as if he
were used to seeing himself hungover and needing a shave. Then he scowled down at
his arm.

“Shit,” he said, reaching for the armband of jersey left from his T-shirt shredding.
“I liked that shirt.” He rolled it down his arm. The last piece of his T-shirt fluttered
to the floor.