Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I expected my diner shift to be stressful, given that I’d found the body of a former resident the night before. The elders did speak to me about it, expressing their horror and grief in whispers, along with sympathy that I’d had to go through that. The others didn’t mention it. I supposed that wasn’t so shocking. Chief Burton had said Ciara’s body would be transferred to the city for the autopsy. That meant the news wouldn’t hit the Chicago papers until tomorrow. Apparently, the elders weren’t breaking the news until the city did.

Gabriel presumed the CPD would want more than the statement I gave Burton, but he was their contact, and he was in court all day, so I heard nothing.

When three o’clock came, I was in the back with Susie for our shift change. The idea is to update the evening server for a smooth handoff, but there’s usually nothing to say, so Susie tells me about her day. One of her kids had won the school spelling bee—they still have spelling bees?—and I was listening to her story of the victory when the diner doorbell jingled. There wasn’t any need to cut her short for that—it’s a “seat yourself” kind of place.

When the bell dinged, the diner had been buzzing with the tea-hour crowd. Now it went silent. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor.

“Can we help you?” I heard Ida ask.

“Is Liv around?”

I recognized the voice but stood there for a second, trying to figure out why Ricky was here.

Because I’d invited him.

Shit. I’d totally forgotten. Normally we texted a few times a day, but he’d had a full schedule. Susie was still talking, and I didn’t want to interrupt. The elders would make him feel welcome.

“How do you know Olivia?” It was Walter … and his tone was not welcoming.

“Don’t you read the papers?” Patrick cut in. “There was a nice photo of them in the Post yesterday. Rick Gallagher, isn’t it?”

“Yes…” Ricky said warily as I mentally willed Susie to hurry up with her story.

“He’s one of Gabriel’s clients,” Patrick said. “A Satan’s Saints biker. See the patch on his jacket? That says he’s a certified motorcycle gang member. Excuse the old folks, Rick. We don’t get many bikers in Cainsville.”

Patrick’s tone was breezy, but he had to know he was being offensive.

“Is Olivia here?” Ricky asked again.

“In the back,” Patrick said. “Have a seat. So where’d you park your bike?”

Susie was close enough to being done that I was able to blurt a quick “That’s so great. Tell her I said congrats,” before racing out.

Ricky stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, responding to Patrick’s needling with clipped answers. If he was nicer, he’d look like a fool. If he got pissy, he’d seem to be overreacting. So he stayed neutral, but I could tell by the set of his jaw it was a struggle.

“Hey,” I called as I walked in. “When did you get here?”

Ricky relaxed. “Just arrived,” he said as he strolled over. “Ready to go?”

“I am.”

As I turned toward the door, I caught Ida’s disapproving frown. I stifled the urge to stiffen. Really? This was where they passed judgment?

I ignored her and the looks from the others, and let Ricky hold the door for me as we left.

“Not having coffee there, I take it?” he said.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “If I had any idea they’d do that—”

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. They aren’t as much concerned about me as they’re concerned for you, and I can’t argue with that. Good to live in a place where people give a shit. I just hope I didn’t cause you any trouble.”

“Never,” I said emphatically.

He smiled. “Good. So where to?”

We walked and talked. I showed him the park and the gargoyles, because he seemed genuinely interested. Then I told him what had happened to me last night, because it was going to be in the papers. I skipped the part about the triskelion and the vision, of course. And the part about finding Ciara’s head in my bed earlier.

One thing we didn’t talk about? My breakup. What if I said, “I ended it with James,” and he said, “That’s nice,” and we continued on as we were?

When he suggested we grab dinner, I said I had to get home—work to do for Gabriel. He escorted me to my apartment. Grace was on the front stoop. She did a double take when I walked up with Ricky. Really, it wasn’t as if he looked like a biker. Sure, the leather-jacket-in-June could be a giveaway, but he’d slung it over his arm as soon as we’d set out.

Ricky said goodbye at the sidewalk. As I climbed the steps, Grace said, “Who’s that?”

“A friend,” I said, and walked inside.

As the door closed behind me, I stopped.

A friend … Did I want more than that? Hell, yes. Was I really questioning whether Ricky wanted more? No. He’d been clear about that from the start.

The truth, God help me, was that Rose was right. To a point, that is. She’d said my Ricky-versus-James conflict was lust versus duty. That oversimplified it, but there was an element of truth there. I felt a duty to James. Incredible guilt, too. More than that, I felt shame. I had loved him. I had wanted to spend my life with him. How does that evaporate in a month? What does that say about me? Nothing I want to say, that’s for sure. So I’d kept trying to find that spark again, certain it was there.

I used to say—though never aloud—that I’d started dating James when I discovered he wasn’t nearly as boring as I’d expected. But given where I came from, that bar was set pretty low. Society guys weren’t to my taste. Even the rebels were boringly predictable in their rebellion. I don’t think I really understood how constrained my world was until I left it. I met Rose and Patrick and Grace, and others who intrigued me because they were so far from my norm. And then there was Gabriel and, yes, Ricky, and compared with them—God, how I hate to say this—the light that had drawn me to James had faded into a barely noticeable glow. They were complex and fascinating and original and real. So vibrantly real. And there was the guilt, because James was a good man. A good, solid man I’d loved. Who now bored me to tears.

Then there was Ricky. Lust? My dreams called me a liar if I denied that. I wanted him. Wanted him bad. But not just as a lover. I wanted to be with him. To get to know him. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made me feel the way Ricky did. Like I was just as fascinating and complex and real as he was.

So why had I said no to dinner? Because I was an idiot. I was feeling skittish and unsettled and spooked by everything that was happening in my life. There was only one person who made me feel like my feet were firmly on the ground. And I’d let him walk away.

I hurried out the door.

Halfway to Main Street, I heard the roar of Ricky’s bike and broke into a jog. I reached the corner just as he was zooming past. He saw me and cut a U-turn, revving back to where I waited on the corner.

“I—” I began.

He motioned for me to wait while he pulled off his helmet. My heart tripped, willing him to hurry and get the damned thing off before I lost my nerve.

“Yes to dinner,” I said. “And a ride. Yes. I want to.”

He gave a slow, sexy grin that made my insides heat. Then he caught himself. “You sure? We can grab your car if you want. If you’re fine with the bike, like I said before, there are no strings—”

“I’m okay with strings.”

He still hesitated.

“I broke it off with James yesterday,” I said. “He wanted me to stop seeing you. I wouldn’t do that.”

He leaned over and put his hand to the back of my neck, and I knew what was coming, but when he kissed me, I still started in surprise. It was like spending the day baking at the side of a pool then finally jumping in, that initial burst of exhilarating shock, followed by a slow, exquisite chill sliding through my body, making me wonder why the hell I’d waited so long to take the plunge.

It was no quick kiss, either. It was long and deep and oh-so-delicious. It took a car passing for both of us to realize we were making out on Main Street.

After a moment’s pause to catch our breath, Ricky handed me his helmet. “Wear this. It’ll be loose, but it’s better than nothing.”

“What about you?”

“By law, I don’t have to wear one. It’s a personal choice. I’ll stick to back roads. Less traffic means a whole lot less chance I’ll need it.”

“You wear it, then. I’ll be—”

He eased the helmet over my head. “There. Now hop on.”

I looked down, realizing I was still in my work uniform—a blouse and skirt. I motioned to it. “Should I go back and change?”

His eyes sparked with mischief. “You can, but I sure as hell won’t complain if you don’t. I’ll keep the speed down so you won’t get cold.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Speed is good.”

“All right, then. Let me get over to the curb so you can climb on without flashing.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until I had to hike my skirt up to get my leg over the seat. Then I had to keep it hiked up to wrap my legs around him, which explained his look when I’d asked about keeping the skirt on.

He reached back to grip my bare knee. “You need to hang on.”

“Right.” I felt down either side of the seat. “Where?”

He took both my hands and wrapped them around his waist.

“Oh,” I said.

“Yep. Now scoot forward and get a good grip.”

Getting that grip meant scooting all the way forward, against him, legs wrapped around him. When I fidgeted, he glanced back.

“Changing your mind?” he asked.

“No, just…” I closed any remaining gap between us and leaned against his back, my hands on his thighs. “This okay?”

He chuckled and looked back. “You need to ask?” he said, then revved the engine and pushed off.

TRESPASS

Patrick stood outside the diner and watched the motorcycle speed off.

“Are you going to say anything?” Ida demanded as she marched up beside him.

“It’s a very nice bike.”

She scowled.

“It is,” he said. “I’ve often thought it would be fun to drive a motorcycle, and if I did, that’s what I’d want. An understated Harley. Lots of power but not too flashy. I might even join a gang. I don’t think his would take me, though.”

“There was a Cŵn Annwn in Cainsville, Patrick.”

“Mmm, technically no,” he said. “The boy is no more cŵn than Gabriel is bòcan. Less so, even. Disgynyddion not epil. Grandchild, I’d wager. He has the blood. Nothing more.”

“He is still Cŵn Annwn,” she said. “He does not belong here. We should have—”

“—killed a boinne-fala boy who obviously has no clue what he is and no idea of the trespass he’s committing?” Patrick turned to her. “Kill him and insult his people? Cast the first spear in a war we don’t dare start?”

“The bòcan has a point.”

It was Veronica, coming out of the diner to join them. She took a place beside Walter, who said nothing in his consort’s defense, which suggested, more than any words, that he didn’t agree with Ida. He just knew better than to say so.

“The boy doesn’t know what he is,” Veronica said. “No more than Gabriel or Olivia know what they are. He committed no intentional offense. We could complain, but if the Cŵn Annwn don’t realize that one of their disgynyddion is acquainted with Olivia, I don’t think it behooves us to tell them.”

“It certainly does not,” Walter said.

“Do you honestly think they don’t know?” Ida turned on them. “They’ve hired him to seduce her. He is a criminal, after all.”

“A biker, not a gigolo,” Patrick said. “That’s clever, don’t you think? Cŵn Annwn running a motorcycle gang? It’s so hard to ride a horse down the highway these days.”

Ida glowered at him. “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

“If I wasn’t, I’d be back inside, finishing my chapter, not here, pointing out the idiocy of your theory. The Gallagher boy is a client of Gabriel’s. That’s how he knows Olivia, not because he was set on her by some shady stranger offering him money to fuck her.”

“There’s no need to be vulgar,” Ida snapped.

“Yes, there is. Boinne-fala nature is vulgar. The boy meets Olivia. She’s an attractive young woman; he’s an attractive young man. Both are unattached. Both are in their sexual prime. Do you really think money needs to change hands for that”– he waved in the direction of the long-vanished bike—“to happen?”

“It’s not just boinne-fala nature,” Veronica cut in before Ida could snap something back. “It’s their nature. From their old blood. I’m sure it’s no coincidence that Gabriel represents the Gallaghers. He met them; they recognized a connection. Cŵn Annwn and Tylwyth Teg may not trust one another, but we understand one another. Gabriel meets the Gallaghers. Gabriel meets Olivia. Olivia meets Rick Gallagher and that”—she gestured down the road– “is what happens. Just as it did for her parents.”

“Cach,” Ida spat.

Patrick looked over in mock shock at the curse. He did not, however, disagree with the sentiment.

A few other elders had joined them, silently listening, as they usually did. One—Minnie—finally spoke, her whispery voice tentative. “What if he isn’t merely Cŵn Annwn? What if he’s—”

“He isn’t,” Ida cut in. “He’s a boy. A random disgynyddion. Nothing more.”

“But if he’s with her, isn’t it possible—”

“No.” Ida turned a look on Minnie, and her anger rippled her glamor, light seeping out before she reined it in. “He is not.”

She turned her hard look on the others, daring them to disagree. None did, though Patrick knew they were all thinking the same thing. Wondering the same thing. Not daring say Arawn’s name, but wondering, fearing, nonetheless.

“It’s a fling,” Ida said. “Patrick is right. Their nature taking control. Nothing more.”

Walter rubbed his chin and said nothing.

Ida turned to Patrick. “Where’s Gabriel in all this?”

“Left standing on the sidelines, it appears,” Patrick said. “There seems to have been some tension between them lately.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing too serious, considering they were together last night. My guess is he’d done something to upset her.”

“Really?” Ida’s gaze bored into his. “I don’t know where he’d get that from.”

“About what happened last night…” Patrick said.

“We’re handling it.”

“I hope so, because it’s a problem, one that suggests the Gallagher boy might not be the only Cŵn Annwn trespassing in Cainsville.”

Ida said nothing. They all went silent. Last night was, quite possibly, the first time in decades that Patrick wished he’d been part of the inner circle, just to see their reactions to the news. One of their special children found murdered. In Cainsville, no less. While he doubted the girl had actually been killed here, the fact remained that someone had murdered Ciara Conway and put her body in the Carew house. It was a message. About Olivia. One they did not wish to receive.

“We’ll solve that,” Ida said. “You handle this.” She waved in the direction Olivia had gone. “Whatever is wrong between her and Gabriel, fix it. Now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

When Ricky passed the town limits and hit the gas, I found the rush I’d been looking for all my life. My earliest memories of life with Pamela and Todd Larsen? Me on a swing, Todd pushing me. Me in his arms as he swung me. Faster, higher, the air whooshing past like hits of pure oxygen. My first taste of a drug I’d never forget. No merry-go-rounds for me. I wanted roller coasters. I wanted go-carts and snow sleds. Faster. Higher. I remember my dad taking me out in the Spyder, and even before I was old enough to drive, he’d hand me the keys on a lonely stretch of road just like this, letting me take the wheel and go. Just go.

The wind whipping over my bare arms and legs was the most delicious burn imaginable, something I’d never gotten in a convertible, even with the top down. I could feel the motorcycle, too, in a way I never felt a car, no matter how perfectly the engine roared and rumbled. This rumble went right through me, vibrating against my bare thighs and, yes, everyplace else that vibration feels so damned good, making me really glad I hadn’t put on a pair of jeans.

Leaning against Ricky’s back, my legs wrapped around his hips, the burn of the wind and the rumble of the bike … It was a rush—an erotic blood rush, head rush, oh-my-God-this-is-amazing rush. I won’t say it was better than sex, but I’ve had some that didn’t live up to this.

It’s not surprising, then, that as we rode, me leaning against him, legs wrapped around him, my fingers slid higher and crept inward, until my hands were wrapped around his inner thighs. When I realized that, I pulled back to a more appropriate hold. He slowed for a turn and stopped the bike, took my hands and put them where they’d been, twisting to look at me and mouthing, “Okay?”

I nudged open the visor. “I don’t want to distract you.”

“I don’t get distracted. I get focused.”

I rubbed the insides of his thighs and his lips parted, lust shimmering in his dark eyes. He pulled off my helmet and kissed me. It wasn’t an easy angle, and the awkward, hungry kiss felt like teasing.

“You want to get off?” he whispered.

“Eventually.”

He laughed, abrupt with surprise and ragged with desire. “Hell, yeah. The bike, I meant. Do you want me to stop?”

“Not yet.”

I kissed him, our lips half meeting, tongues brushing, teeth clicking as we struggled for that elusive connection, the frustration of not finding it only raising the heat.

“I want more,” I said.

He chuckled. “That’s the idea.”

“The bike, I mean. Faster.” My fingers moved to his crotch, rock-hard under his jeans. “Yes?”

“Shit, yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

I pulled my hand away. “I shouldn’t while you’re driving…”

“You should.” He put my hand back where it had been. “You absolutely should.”

He kissed me again, and I started to think that getting off—the bike and otherwise—right away wasn’t such a bad plan. When he went to put my helmet back on, I stopped him.

“I’d like to leave it off,” I said.

He hesitated.

“Please.” I moved against him. “I want to feel it.”

“You really want to feel it?” He leaned back and whispered a suggestion in my ear.

I pulled my leg up, turning sideways on the bike. Then I slid off my panties. I was going to stuff them into my pocket, but he took them and put them in the saddlebag. He took something from the bag as well—a condom. He lifted it, a question and a clear signal of where he figured this was heading. I nodded and he pushed it down into his pocket.

I swung my leg back over the bike, hiked up my skirt, wrapped my legs around him, and put my hands back where they’d been. He pushed off.

If the earlier ride had been better than a few sexual encounters I’d had, the one I got now beat most of them. It was incredible, hair blowing, wind wailing past my ears, skirt hiked up around my hips, sitting bare-assed on the seat, the bike buzzing and rumbling under me, my hands on Ricky’s crotch, rubbing him.

He wasn’t lying when he said distraction only made him more focused. It was as if the bike itself responded, sailing over hills and around curves with a perfection of speed and motion that was beyond exhilarating. Beyond exciting. I leaned against his back and felt him under my fingers and the bike rumbling under me and … I came. On the back of a bike. A completely unexpected, amazing orgasm that kept going until, the next thing I knew, Ricky was veering off onto a dirt trail into a patch of woods, hitting the brakes before the bike was even safely hidden by the trees, and then he was pulling me off the bike with a hoarse “Yes?” and the second I said yes in return, I swear he had the condom on and was inside me, before we even hit the ground.

I was still orgasming from the bike when the fresh waves hit, so intense I didn’t care where we were, didn’t even know if I was horizontal yet, only cared that it kept going. And it did, just long enough to leave me lying on the grass, panting, eyes rolling in ecstasy, with Ricky poised over me, whispering, “Shit, holy shit,” until we both caught our breath and he laughed, a little awkwardly, as if embarrassed. “That was, uh, not quite as finessed as I’d hoped. Sorry. I got carried away.”

“Oh, I like carried away. I was already there, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Yeah, that was … Holy shit.” His cheeks colored. “I’ll stop saying that. I sound like a sixteen-year-old after his first time.”

“Don’t,” I said, grabbing the front of his T-shirt and pulling him down for a kiss.

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re apologizing. I’m pretty sure if anyone should apologize, it’s the person who had her hands where they should never be on someone operating a motor vehicle.”

“Oh, I wasn’t complaining. I just—I thought I had it under control, and then—”

“Stop. I said yes. You used a condom. If you keep apologizing, I’m going to presume that means you don’t ever want to do that again, and I’m really hoping that’s not the case because…” My tongue slipped between my teeth. “Hell and damn, that was good.”

He smiled, but I could tell he was still worrying he’d messed up, been too eager, disappointed me.

Since we’d first met, Ricky had pursued me with the confidence of a man twice his age. Now that he’d succeeded, the doubts and vulnerability peeked through, and I knew they’d vanish again when he got his footing, but it was fascinating to see, more contradictions adding to his endless tangle of them.

He kissed me then, one hand behind my head, cushioning it from the ground, the other under my ass. When a car passed, he broke the kiss only long enough to make sure the long grass hid us. Then another noise stopped him: my grumbling stomach.

“It’s reminding me that I promised you dinner,” he said. “And I should damn well deliver before I try for more.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“Dinner? Or more sex?”

I laughed. “I mean that after lying on the grass, I’m not in any condition to be taken to a restaurant.”

“Would you settle for pizza? Delivered?”

I slid from under him and sat up. “Delivered where?”

“Here, of course.”

We were in the middle of nowhere, on an empty road surrounded, I was sure, by more empty roads.

“If you could manage that—” I began.

“—you’d spend the night with me? Yes, you have work in the morning. I’ll get you back in time. But if I can manage to get pizza delivered here, will you let me find us a place for the night? I know that’s not what you had in mind.”

“I—”

He cut me off with a quick kiss. “I aim to impress, and I need a bed to do it. Besides, you don’t believe I can get a pizza delivered out here, so…”

“Go on and try.”

“We have a deal?”

“We do.”

He had to walk to his bike to get decent cell service. Then he used his phone to look up a place. He called one. I heard a male voice answer. Ricky said he had the wrong number, hung up, and called another place. He got a woman this time and shifted into full charm mode, chatting away. After about two exchanges, I knew he had her. It was too damned easy for him. So I decided to make it tougher.

I started unbuttoning my blouse. He caught the movement and looked over. He could have looked away. He didn’t. As I stripteased, his eyes never left me. Nor did he falter for one goddamned second in his other conquest, even as the growing bulge in his jeans told me my performance was not unappreciated. Less than two minutes later, he hung up.

“Pizza’s on its way, isn’t it?” I said.

“Yep. Twenty minutes. Which gives you plenty of time to finish.” He took a step forward. “Unless you want help.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“You’ll tell me when?”

“You’ll wait until I do?”

He grinned, his look sending heat through me. “That might require ropes. Strong ropes.”

“Another time,” I said. “For now, you’ll wait. Right there. Until I’m ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and eased back to watch the show.

I think Ricky was right: strong ropes would be required to hold him back when he wanted something. Possibly chains. I teased until it was clear he was about two seconds from breaking. Then I said the word and got very enthusiastic, very satisfying sex, with a few minutes to spare before pizza arrived and we ate, half dressed, on the grass.

At the motor inn, he did indeed show me exactly how attentive he could be. I was soundly asleep ten minutes after, the clock having not yet even struck nine.