To Hiss or to Kiss (16 page)

* * *

After the shower I still feel riled up, so I decide to give the meditation thing a go and try doing a Reiki self-treatment that I read about in the book Jorge gave me. Unfortunately, it calls for a full hour of treatment using twelve different hand positions, each held for five minutes. Good thing Jorge has a comfy bed.

I really don’t think I can do it, but it turns out my willpower is better than I thought. Or I’m really motivated to steer clear of awkward encounters with a man I want to fuck senseless while refusing to allow my libido to run free. Either way, I make it through the whole treatment. I even spend a decent amount of it actually relaxing into the energy, a warm tingle emanating from my hands that I still find just plain weird. I manage to look at the clock only about three or four times—during each hand position. Guess I have a lot of practicing to do. Story of my life lately.

I am pretty adept at avoiding things I don’t want to think about. Well, except when I’m trying to fall asleep. Or meditate, it seems. But each time I catch my mind going rogue, I try to keep it focused on my breath, as the book and Jorge suggest. And when that fails, I replay the plans Jorge shared with me. I pictured how all the gadgets work, how I’ll sneak up to the target window, what I’ll wear, how to get the dogs out quickly. I’ll need to ask Gracie where the cage keys are. With luck, they’re stored somewhere she’s seen.

I try to figure out what to do with the dogs after I get them out. Maybe report them as strays who wandered to Jorge’s house from the direction of the neighbor’s? Would their horrible condition be enough for an investigation? Shit, I’m in over my head. Jorge’s not wrong about that.
I decide winging it is the best plan if push comes to shove.

When I get to the final hand position, my nerves rise as the moment of actually facing the day comes closer. I want the easy banter of my best moments with Jorge. I want to suddenly master this psychic stuff. I want to find a foolproof way to save the dogs. It’s a lot of wanting and not much doing. I feel overwhelmed, catatonic, and just plain old scared shitless by the enormity of it all.

Another Reiki concept enters my brain:
Just for today, do not worry
. I’m not sure how to even begin to make that happen, but maybe it will come to me some day. For now, I bring my awareness fully back into the room, willing myself to get up, leave the bedroom, and face Jorge.

Despite my best efforts to be as soundless as possible as I walk to the living room, it doesn’t work. How could it with his cat hearing? Before I even make it to the end of the hall, I hear his voice.

“That was a long shower.” He sets a book down on a side table by the couch he’s sitting on and swivels to look at me enter the living room.

“For your information I just did a whole Reiki self-treatment.”

To his credit he doesn’t look completely surprised. If the roles were reversed I might drop my jaw at the idea I actually spent a whole hour at least somewhat focused.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’re finding value in the practice already.” He looks genuinely pleased with me, or maybe pleased for me.

I decide not to tell him my real motivation was procrastination. “Yes, it was relaxing. I could really feel the warm tingly sensation the book talked about.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of weird at first.”

We fall into a semi-awkward silence, which is better than a completely awkward silence. I want to drop my shields to get into his head, but I refrain. Because then he’d be in mine. Too bad I had to spill the beans on us sharing thoughts. No sneaking around in his brain for me. Although we’ll need to open up to practice.

Can I sneak around without him knowing?

Shit, can he do that to me?

I shake my head to clear my runaway thoughts. “So, what are you reading?”

“
Intuitive Reiki for Our Times
. I thought it might have some helpful ideas. I believe tapping into your intuition is the key to enhancing your gift.” Excitement fills his voice. “I’ll give it to you to read later, if you’d like. It’s got some good concepts to ponder.”

“Intuition? I did also pick up on Gracie’s hunger and thirst last night without her telling me or sending me a picture of her cage. Is that what the book’s about?” Then I remember I’m dreading today’s practice session lest I end up even more disappointed in myself.

But it’s too late. Jorge latches onto the excitement in my voice. “Yes, it talks about picking up impressions through Reiki practice on someone. It, of course, talks about people. But the same applies to animals.”

I tamp down the enthusiasm in my voice. “Yes. I’ll have to read the book.”

Jorge’s face drops a bit, and we fall into another slightly more awkward silence.

Why do I keep shooting him down? What’s wrong with me?

“Well, I guess that’s a good intro to starting today’s practice.”

“Don’t sound so excited.” Sarcasm laces his voice as he stands up and gestures for me to take a seat on the couch. “I promise not to pull any teeth.”

I roll my eyes, but try to keep my tone light. “You’re a barrel of laughs this afternoon.”

“Back at you.” He doesn’t sound like he’s joking at all.

Our gazes meet and I wish to God I knew how to answer the questions in his eyes. Instead I break eye contact and flop on the couch. “Let’s get this party started.”

With a nod, he proceeds to slide on some shoes and head out the door. We both know the drill and drop our shields, performing a repeat of the day before where he goes farther and farther away while I try to stay connected and pinpoint his location.

At first, I’m able to give him more details on his locale, and he makes it a couple hundred yards farther than before with me still being able to create the connection. But I want more, so I keep pushing. We try over and over with no improvement and my ire and impatience rises.

Jorge’s frustration pulses through our bond. He keeps suggesting we take a break, but I push us both until early evening. I’m exhausted and hungry, but I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to admit failure again. Dammit, this fucking sucks.

“I can hear your swearing, you know.”

“So what? Haven’t heard those words before?”
I snipe.

“Touchy.”

I snarl at him. Through our connection, I can tell he’s suddenly moving very rapidly back toward the house.
“What are you doing?”

“Coming back to the house. We’re done for the day.”

“I’m not done.”

“Yes, you are. You’re angry, tired, and hungry. I can feel it, so don’t deny it.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t keep going.”

“Yes, it does. I’m concerned about you.”

I mentally roll my eyes, but before I can retort, he continues.
“Well, if you don’t care about yourself, feel free to believe we’re quitting because I’m also tired and hungry.”
He opens the door and comes in with that thought.

My tension transfers from my thoughts into my voice, and I glare at him. “You’re not the one doing the heavy lifting here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes. Walking around outside for hours is no work at all.” He kicks off his shoes and heads toward the kitchen.

I get up and follow. “You’re in better shape than anyone I know. A few hours is nothing.”

“I’d hardly call four hours nothing. My feet hurt and I have a headache—probably from you.” He starts pulling out sandwich fixings with much more force than necessary.

“Oh, yeah, blame me for your headache. I’m the one trying to stretch my brain. If anyone has a fair claim to a headache it’s me.”

He talks to me like I’m a small child. “That’s what I mean. I’ve been in your head so long I’ve got your headache. And honestly, your attitude now isn’t helping.” He starts pulling out slices of bread. “Do you want a sandwich?”

The irony of him making me a sandwich even while I’m yelling at him doesn’t escape me despite my current inability to calm down. I’m hungry enough to say, “Yes, thanks.” Good to know I can still be polite even in the midst of a fight. My dad would be proud. I had plenty of childhood practice using automatic pleases and thank-yous even while burning with fury at my dad’s apathy. At least Jorge isn’t apathetic.

Jorge unleashes his anger into the sandwich making, slapping on condiments and fixings. I watch, trying to calm myself down. He shoves a sandwich toward me and starts making one for himself. I dive into it, wolfing it down before he finishes making his own. It might be the best-tasting sandwich ever. When did I get that hungry?

I slump down in a kitchen chair once I’m done, the tiredness suddenly making it difficult to hold myself upright.

Jorge brings his sandwich over and sits next to me. His features are still set in hard, pissed-off lines, but he sounds relatively calm. “I think the progress you made today was good.”

I snort. “Not good enough.” My head falls to rest on my hands on the table.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” His voice is gentler now. I hear him take a bit of his sandwich, the lettuce crunching.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have anyone’s life in your hands.”

“Neither do you. No one said it’s your responsibility to save those dogs. That’s what the authorities are for.”

I snort again. “We both know how well the authorities are doing so far. They’re in red-tape hell while those dogs suffer.”

He sighs and stops talking. He might as well. He’s not winning this argument.

I listen to him eat the rest of his sandwich, trying to keep my mind as blank as possible, which isn’t that hard since I’m bone-deep tired.

He clears his throat. “I think you might be blocking your progress. We started out with such an easy connection, but then I could feel you trying so hard.”

“What?” My head snaps up. “You think I’m holding back?”

“No, that’s not what I mean—”

My anger goes off the charts. “How dare you? I’m giving my all to this process. I’m taking time off of work, abandoning my volunteer work, and practically moved in with you.”

He puts his hands out, trying to appease me. “I know. I just mean that you might just need to
be
. By
doing
, your ego can get in your own way.”

“Are you saying I’m egotistical?”

“No, no.” As his frustration rises, his emerald eyes go flinty. “You aren’t listening to me.”

I stand, knocking my chair back, but I don’t care. “Maybe that’s because you’re accusing me of sabotaging this process. You might as well just say you think I’m
trying
to get those dogs killed.”

“Jesus, Chloe. Listen to yourself. You’re not making sense.” He runs his hand through his hair, and I can’t take it anymore. I turn to walk from the room, but he’s up lightning fast, his hand on my arm whipping me around to face him. Damn his cat reflexes. “I’m not blaming you or accusing you. I’m just asking you to think about the difference between doing and being.”

“What are you even talking about? Is this more of your inane philosophical babble?”

He grits his teeth, and his grip on my arm tightens. “I’m trying to help you.”

I try to twist out of his grip. “Well, it doesn’t feel like it.”

“You are the most frustrating woman I have ever met.” He drops my arm and rubs his hands through his hair again.

And goddamn him, his hair looks good mussed up. I want to mess it up a little more.

“Gee, thanks.” It comes out a little breathily, much to my chagrin. And to top it off, I feel myself blushing. Fuck this.

I spin to try to escape the room, but Jorge pulls another cat trick and I barrel into his chest at the doorway. How the hell does he move that fast? Not fair.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He voice is like iron, as is the grip he once again has on my arm.

“Anywhere away from you.” I glare into his emerald eyes, which flash with anger and maybe a bit of passion. Damn him.

I remember the first time I saw those eyes. They were flashing then, too. I’ve never been so taken with someone’s eyes before. My anger softens, but not enough to stop me from struggling to get past him.

I can tell he reads this softening in my eyes. His own eyes lose some of their flint, and I sense sadness, longing, and love all mixed in with the anger of his emotions. My ire relents a little more, but the flames don’t die out as I consider whether or not I should break out the self-defense moves to flee this situation. I swear he knows what I’m thinking even though I’m certainly not projecting.

His gaze dips to my lips, which are pressed into a thin line of anger. “Fuck this.” And then he is kissing me. Hard.

I try to pull away, but one of his hands has come up behind my head, pulling me tight to him. He runs his tongue along my lower lip. I groan, not sure if I still want to get away or open up to tangle my own tongue with his.

He slides his other hand down my arm, cupping my butt and pulling me tight to his firm body. My traitorous hips rock into him of their own accord, his hard cock pressing into me in a delicious way. I briefly consider kicking him where it counts in a last-ditch effort to flee, but my mutinous mouth has decided to open, and the electricity of his tongue on mine goes right to my core, weakening my knees.

He lifts me up, our lips still locked, and my legs grow a mind of their own and wrap around his torso. He stumbles us toward the bedroom, never breaking the kiss. My hands take pleasure in further messing up his beautiful mane of hair.

When we reach the bed, he tosses me down, all the gentleness of our previous lovemaking gone. And that’s just fine with me. A giant claw extends from one of his fingers and he cuts my tee and bra right up the middle. His claw retracts and he pounces on my breasts, furiously kneading one while nipping and sucking the other. I arch into him, moaning.

My mind works well enough to have a moment of fear that he’s going to rip off my jeans. “These are my favorite jeans. Don’t shred them.”

The rumble of his laughter carries into the breast he’s suckling. He rises up enough to reach down and undo my jeans. “I guess I’ll just take my time getting them off then.” His voice is husky as his hand snakes inside and pushes down my jeans and underwear. He kisses the sensitive skin of my hip and continues to trail wet kisses down my legs as he slowly slides my pants off.