Driving Mr. Dead

Page 12

His nostrils flared as he inched closer, a purring noise rumbling from his chest and through my own. His lips traced a cool path down my jugular, and my eyes rolled up, just catching sight of a huge black spider scuttling under the bed. Acute arachnophobia snapped me out of my hormone-fueled daze.
“What the hell?” I yelped, just as the glass globe from the light fixture dropped and shattered against the bed, right where my head had rested just a minute before. Collin threw his arm over my head as glass tinkled down against his shoulders, the carpet around our heads.
“It worked!” he exclaimed, grinning down at me. It was like the moon breaking through storm clouds, white and brilliant and welcome. His eyes slid down my skin to assess any damage.
“Yes, throwing me to the ground was a very effective method of getting me out of bed.”
“No, the light, I saw it—” He seemed so relieved that a tacky light fixture had nearly crashed into my head. “I saw it.”
My brow furrowed. “I’m … glad?”
He grinned down at me, and suddenly, I was acutely aware of the fact that he was sprawled between my unclad thighs. The silky fabric of his suit chafed pleasantly against my skin as his legs tangled with mine. He leaned in close, the faintest stirring of air against my lips.
He leaned down, brushing his lips across mine tentatively, then pulling my lip into his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I blurted out.
He drew back. “What?”
“You were kissing me,” I said, almost as shocked as I was amused. His mouth dropped open, and he was about to protest. “If you try to pretend you weren’t, I will lose all respect for you.”
“If I was kissing you, you would know,” he said solemnly.
“You’re right, I hallucinated it,” I shot back.
Lightning-fast, he struck, claiming my mouth with his. I felt the prick of his fangs as he worried my lip between his teeth. I moaned into his mouth, the cool slide of flesh over cool flesh. My fingers curled around his nape, feathering through the soft dark hair there. I tentatively swept the tip of my tongue against his lip and tasted the tangy sweetness of his mouth. He eagerly parted his lips and let his tongue dance with mine. His hands skimmed the length of my body, resting on my hips, tilted them to match his own.
His hands slid under my butt, and he ground down. I hummed pleasantly around his tongue and felt a responding purr building in his chest. He was so cool to the touch. I expected him to be cold, hard, but this was such a soothing contrast to the heat of my own body. I flexed under him, just for the pleasure of feeling his skin slide against mine. He groaned and held me still with a quick grip of my hips.
His mouth broke away from mine. “You really are the most interesting girl, did you realize?”
I nodded. “I defy you to find anyone more interesting than me.”
He grinned again and traced my uninjured fingers over his cheeks to his lips. He pressed the tip of one between his teeth and gently bit down, drawing a bit of blood. It seeped into his mouth, and I could feel every bump of his sandpaper tongue against the pad of my digit. With each draw against the wound, a strange pulsing energy edged up from between my thighs. I moaned, throwing my head back and grinding my hips up against him. The pulsing became a rolling riptide, dragging me over the edge—
Too much, too much, too much! my brain screamed at me.
What was I doing? What the hell was I thinking? Although we were on a break, so to speak, I was still technically involved with Jason. And if I got mad at him for cheating on me “emotionally” with Lisa, I couldn’t in good conscience get all grindy with Collin.
Hell, what I was doing was worse. Jason seemed to have genuine feelings for Lisa. All I had for Collin were neuron-frying lust and the tender, green beginnings of mutual respect. Maybe this was some sort of Stockholm syndrome? I was stuck in increasingly bizarre situations with Collin, so I bonded to him emotionally? Maybe it was my brain’s way of preventing a total psychological break.
Then again, considering that it was Collin who kissed me, maybe he was having the break. What was he thinking? The man who sneered at my “limitations” twenty-four hours ago couldn’t be the same guy who pinned me to the floor and kissed the hell out of me. Why was he doing this? Did he really like me, or did my employment stories make him feel sorry for me? Was this a pity kiss?
“I think I’ll take that shower now,” I whispered, easing my fingers away from his mouth.
He frowned, looking me over. “Do you have glass in your hair?”
“No, but we’ve had contact with the carpet.” I gave an exaggerated shiver.
He smiled again and helped me to my feet. I scampered across the stained, glittering rug and locked myself in the cramped little bathroom. It still smelled like the herbal shampoo he used. It seemed so strange, after spending the last day at such a distance, to share a relatively intimate space. It was downright domestic, his Fang-Brite Mouthwash on the counter next to my toothbrush. My little bottles of toiletries in the shower next to his. I shook off these pointless musings and doused my head.
The cooling shower helped me focus my thoughts. Kissing Collin, as wonderful as it had been, was a huge mistake. Nothing good could come of it. Leaving off the complications to my already conscience-boggling relationship with Jason and the potential professional ass whipping I would take if Iris found out, it wasn’t as if Mr. Sixteen-Page Contract Rider would want anything but a one-night stand with me. And that would most likely be for the sake of bragging rights with his fellow uptight ancients: “You wouldn’t believe the walk on the wild side I took with this spazzy little human who couldn’t walk across a parking lot unscathed.”
I shampooed aggressively, which is always a mistake. I ended up with dried-out hair and an empty bottle of shampoo. I combed through my wet tangle of hair, carefully moisturizing and applying a raspberry-scented lotion.
I would put a stop to this, even if it meant a return to cranky, stern Mr. Sutherland. I would be sensible, for once in my life. I would be professional, discreet. I would stop letting the client suck on my fingers.
I slipped back into the shorts and tank, combing through my wet hair and brushing my teeth far more vigorously than I usually did. Curious, I lifted the top of the Fang-Brite Mouthwash, suddenly very self-conscious about the state of my breath. I sniffed. It smelled just like any market-brand mouthwash. I took a little swig … and immediately coughed it right into the sink.
It was like minty-fresh battery acid! I cupped my hand under the faucet, spooning it into my mouth and rinsing thoroughly. I checked the mirror to make sure my teeth hadn’t melted away. They were present … and a little whiter. Clearly, vampire teeth were made of stronger stuff than mine.
Note to self: Vampire products are for vampires only.
I straightened the towels, knowing that leaving them askew would drive Collin nuts, and decluttered the bathroom before emerging. He was standing right outside the door, making me yelp in surprise and nearly slip on the wet tile. His hand shot out and caught me before I landed on my butt.
“What are you doing?” I demanded. I glanced down at the worn brown leather journal in his hand. My worn brown leather journal. He was looking through my photos again. “What is it with you and that journal? Has it occurred to you that you should ask before you go rifling through someone’s stuff?”
“It’s intriguing,” he said, holding the book open to a page showing a picture of the sunrise over the Atlantic City Boardwalk. I remembered waiting for that shot, holding my breath until the exact moment the sun rose over the water and set it on fire with flickers of gold and red. “Did you take all of the photos yourself?”
“Yes.”
“That explains the whirring and clicking I heard at the diner. Did you take my picture when my eyes were closed?”
I smirked a little and notched my chin up a bit. “Maybe.”
“You’re very good, a keen eye for dramatic composition. I haven’t seen the sunrise in more than a century, but I feel as if I’m there. I can feel the sun on my face … without the sensation of my flesh bursting into flame.”
“That’s a plus,” I agreed. I pushed past him, taking my journal with me, only to find that he had cleared out the glass-littered bedspread, propped up the bent bed leg, and put the room to rights. “Thanks for fixing the bed.”
“I called the front desk. The clerk was more than willing to let me vacuum up the mess myself. Unfortunately, the party upstairs seems to be a stag night for the manager’s cousin. So the noise levels won’t be lowering anytime soon. Also, the clerk mentioned something about beggars can’t be choosers? Do you know what that means?”
“No.” I shook my head, shrugging. “The noise is OK, actually. It reminds me of when I lived in Detroit, above this noodle shop and karaoke bar. Awesome mai fun. Baaaad impersonations of Britney Spears.”
I slid into the bed and tried not to think about the relative cleanliness of the sheets. Collin settled into his chair and propped his feet on the bed.
“How did you know about the light fixture?”
He pursed his lips as he turned the page of his book. “It’s not important.”
“Right,” I muttered. Unreasonably irritated by this response, I rolled away from him and pulled the blankets up to my chin. “Good night, Collin.”
I closed my eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion drag me into soft, dark near-unconsciousness.
“I see glimpses.”
My eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. I propped myself up on my elbows, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”
“I see glimpses of the future. That’s what I meant earlier by ‘it worked.’ It’s been days since it’s worked properly. I finally got a quick impression, and it was you, getting pelted with broken glass from the broken fixture. I believe it was because you were finally still, not able to make plans or decisions.”
“One, that’s kind of a dickish thing to say. And two, thank you for saving me from a face full of broken glass.”
“You’re very welcome. I quite like your face. I would like it to remain intact.”
Lord help me, I actually blushed and struggled for something to say. All I could come up with was, “So you’re psychic?”
“Only vaguely, but over time, I’ve seen the signs of events and can interpret a larger picture. After a while, all of the possible scenarios seem repetitive.”
“And that’s how you knew to throw the coffee out the window earlier?”
He grinned. “No, you were eyeing that cup and my face in a way that could only mean injury for me.”
I sat up, facing him. “Is that why you try so hard to control your environment?”
“Every choice, every change in plans, every shift in direction is a chance for different outcomes. I see them all. If I allow too many of those variables, the effect is disorienting and overwhelming.”
“That’s why you try so hard to avoid contact with people? To avoid being overwhelmed?” I guessed. “And what does that have to do with your anti-fast-food-wrapper obsession?”
“Well, frankly, I find the idea of leaving week-old food wrappers in your car to be pointless and disgusting,” he told me. “But there are other issues. The more cluttered an environment, the more likely it is that an accident will occur. If there are too many potential outcomes in a situation, it can become disorienting for me.”
“But if you can see an accident coming, how did you end up in a plane crash?”
“I didn’t see it coming,” he said. “I’d flown a handful of times without problems. I didn’t see anything going awry when we boarded. And then, an hour into the flight, the pilot was offered a piece of candy. It was an impulsive gesture from a copilot who normally didn’t like to share. The candy had nuts in it, which caused a violent allergic reaction in the pilot—”