Kicking It

Page 15

“But the hammer is gone.”
“And will never again be used by those fuckers. I’m okay with that.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Then get over it, because I’m not taking the purse back. I made it for you. I want you to have it, even if you have to consider it a gift.”
“A gift, huh?” She ran her finger over the pattern he’d tooled into the leather.
What he wouldn’t have given to have her stroke him like that.
“It’s been a long time since anyone has given me anything.”
“Good, then. It’s settled.” At least he hoped. “Want to stay for dinner?”
She froze, shedding all her natural, fluid warmth. “I don’t think so. Places to go and all that.”
He’d scared her. With an invitation to dinner. After watching her face down a room full of Fractogasts, that seemed inconceivable.
“I promise to be a perfect gentleman.” No matter how much willpower it cost him.
She stared up at him, biting her bottom lip. He could see her quivering on the edge of giving in, but as soon as her eyes lowered, he knew he’d lost. “I should go. Rain check?”
“Sure. You obviously know how to find me.”
“Thanks for the purse. I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t. After the beating you took, we’re more than even.”
Her smoky green gaze hit him again, and this time he actually swayed with the force of it. She was so unbelievably beautiful it made him forget that the rest of the world even existed.
Simone looped her arms around his neck, went up on tiptoe, and pressed a kiss against his lips. It lasted only a second, and it was completely chaste, but it still felt scorching hot and rocked him down to his boots.
His lips tingled, and he felt a stirring of power lingering just beneath his skin.
When she was done shifting the ground under his feet, she let go and took a small step back. “I always repay my debts, Brighton. Call me if you need me.”
“I don’t have your number. It took me weeks to find you last time. If you hadn’t responded to my online messages—”
She pressed one slender finger against his lips. “Call my name. I’ll hear you. You’re not the only one with special talents, you know.”
That’s when he realized what she’d done. That kiss had left him with a gift—the ability to summon her.
Marcus was blown away by her trust. “You sure you want to give me such power?”
She moved past him, heading toward the door. “Too late now. Just give me a few weeks for the rib to heal before you run into trouble again, okay?”
She left the RV, and it suddenly felt empty. Too empty.
He hurried down the steps, around to the back side of the RV, where she’d parked her motorcycle out of sight, and held out his hand. “Give it back.”
A look of complete, shocked innocence covered her lovely face. “What?”
“The belt you stole.”
She gave him a slow, sexy smile as she fished the belt out from the back of her tight bodice. “You’re catching on, Brighton. There might be hope for you yet.”
THE GIRL WITH NO NAME
BY CHRIS MARIE GREEN
1
I woke up in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, and it took me only a few seconds to realize I had no idea where I was.
Or who I was.
Heart thumping, mind skittering, I surveyed the closed, heavy curtains and the blazing lights that I had evidently left on. Round me, paintings of trumpets, saxophones, and clarinets hung on the walls. I kept anticipating the numbness of sleep to wear off, yet . . .
No. So I closed my eyes again, giving myself more time. When that didn’t work, my pulse pounded faster, like feet running over an endless street. I sat up in the bed, covers swaddling me to the hips.
Brain. Surely my brain would kick in any moment.
Yet my head was still a near blank while I inspected myself: fully dressed, in a tight thin-strapped black tank with a skull and crossbones on the front, cutoff jeans shorts. But then I focused on my legs. They felt heavy, encased, as if . . .
I whipped off the covers, then gaped.
A pair of boots—and not any sort of boots I’d seen before now. (As if I even faintly knew what I had seen before now.) These boots came to just below my knees, and they appeared to be made of . . . vines. A dark green mass of attractively entwined strands, wrapping round calves and feet, as if I had just now stepped off nature’s catwalk.
“What the bloody hell?” I whispered, still staring. Was I in an old episode of The Twilight Zone? Wait—how did I know what The Twilight Zone was when I couldn’t even remember anything about how I had gotten here or where I was or what I was doing in these tarty, out-of-the-ordinary boots?
Slowly, one fact caught up to me: I had spoken with an English accent. Somewhat posh. A touch salty, perhaps. And if I knew it was an English accent, that meant I could at least remember something about my world. I knew things, but not important things . . .
I rolled out of the bed. The sheets were clean, tidy. Clearly, I was not a restless sleeper. In fact, it was as if I had slept the slumber of the dead.
For some odd reason, that thought weighed on me as I rushed to the window, yanking aside the curtain to discover that I was on the second floor of a house, dusk pressing down on a view of a street decorated with wrought-iron galleries. Below them, people meandered down sidewalks, some wearing flashy beads under the flickering lanterns and carrying plastic cups. A fence enclosed the yard, and across the way a corner market was boarded up.
I sprang to a nearby desk, grasping at a folder, the golden lettering on the front confirming my growing suspicions.
Hanover House. New Orleans.
I allowed myself to sigh. Here was my explanation, right before me. Today I had most likely gotten rat-arsed on the Hand Grenades and Hurricanes I knew they sold on Bourbon Street, and had stumbled back to my bed-and-breakfast room. I was on holiday, out for a good time. Liquor was the reason I didn’t remember a few pertinent details. Evidently I had destroyed key brain cells.
But then, why didn’t I feel as groggy or booze-bitten as I should have?
Instead of asking myself again the reason I could remember big-picture items such as how it felt to be hungover, I stumbled away from the desk, turning round, looking for a suitcase or a bag or anything else I had brought with me. Even a smartphone that could fill in my blanks. I searched drawers, under the bed, everywhere.
Again . . . nothing, unless you counted the unfurled paper clip on my nightstand.
Panic increasingly chipped at me as I told myself to think. Think hard.
Check your pockets, you git.
I did, but I didn’t have much luck there, either: merely thirty dollars.
The room was closing in on me. Even those boots felt tight. Too tight, as if they were gnawing at my skin. Unable to stand the sensation, I bent to remove them.
But . . . no zipper, no buckles. I attempted to draw the material away from my legs, but it was as if the boots were leeched on.
That couldn’t be. So I tried to wedge them away from me again, dropping to the carpet this time, pulling forcefully at them. My legs tingled, and I could have sworn the boots were a part of my flesh.
Impossible. Absolutely insane.
Resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I told myself not to give in to the anxiety strumming at my nerves. But I had no name, no clue, no idea what to do next.
After a few breaths, I realized the front desk would have my name. What a fuckwit. So I stood, catching sight of myself in a mirror across the room. I was young, mid-twenties, perhaps. Sandy hair that was straight and cut to the shoulders. And my eyes were a clear green color, my nose slightly tilted, my teeth with a bit of an overbite. I looked clean, as if I had recently showered, so I couldn’t have had that rough of a day out on the streets.
At least I didn’t look as insane as I felt. I took a moment to freshen up in the bathroom—the proprietors were kind enough to have toothpaste and other toiletries on hand—then left the room, taking care not to lock the door since I couldn’t find my key.
Just outside my door, I found a middle-aged woman with dark skin and black hair worn short and flipped up at the ends. She sported a print skirt and a white blouse, and carried an armful of those hospitality baskets, as if she were an employee or owner.
At first, her smile welcomed me. But then she glanced at my boots and frowned. When her gaze traveled to the room number on the door, the frown only deepened.
“Hello,” I said, my pulse pounding. I would have wagered she’d never seen me before in her life.
“What’re you doing in that room?” she asked in a thick Southern accent. “It’s unoccupied.”
I recalled the unbent paper clip on the desk. I didn’t have a key at all, did I? I had the feeling that I had picked that lock, showered, then fallen asleep as sweetly as Goldilocks before the Three Bears had come home. Why?
I knew somewhere deep down that I didn’t want this woman to contact any authorities, so I smiled at her, assuring her that I meant no harm. She dropped one of the baskets and clutched at the other one’s handle with both hands, as if to swing it at me.
“Carlos!” she yelled, obviously summoning an employee. “Call 911!”
I bolted toward the staircase, and she wasn’t far behind me.
“Get back here, little girl! What did you steal?”
No time to answer as I easily flew down the steps. Very easily, but that had to be my adrenaline kicking in. I burst through the front door, sprinting out the gate to the street, where people had paused, watching the screaming woman emerging from Hanover House.
“Get back here, you shit!” she yelled.
But she sounded far off in the distance as I gained speed, the sidewalk spinning by under my boots, the buildings a blur as I pumped my arms, going faster, faster, faster—
No time to think about how I was managing to move so rapidly, because I heard a siren ahead. The law already?
I skidded, taking a right turn into an alley. Shadows enveloped me as I slowed, then crouched behind discarded crates, at the rear of a restaurant, judging by the seafood aromas coming from the back door.