Rhapsodic
Page 23
Tonight, he didn’t need to show me his place, but he did. Just as he didn’t need to show me his wings, but he also did. If he’s trying to confuse me, he’s doing a good job of it.
Once Desmond fades out of sight, I slip inside and head into the kitchen. Earlier, he’d taken a bead from me shortly after he caught me drinking wine. He never explained what exactly he took the bead for, though I have my suspicions.
Now my curiosity gets the best of me. Time to test my theory and hope to God I’m wrong.
Grabbing a bottle of Jameson whiskey from my cupboard, I unscrew the cap, catching the first whiffs of the liquor. I pause for a second. If his earlier repayment is what I think it is, this might be unpleasant. That niggling worry stills my hand only for a moment, and then I tip the bottle back and take a long, deep swig from it.
The whiskey is like liquid amber going down; I can already feel it burning away my nerves. I close my eyes and enjoy the initial sting of it at the back of my throat and the warmth that curls inside my stomach.
A moment later, I relax.
I thought he’d banned me from drinking alcohol, but obviously my theory was wrong.
I put the whiskey away, relieved.
It’s only as I’m padding back to my bedroom that I feel it. My stomach lurches. I swallow and pause. The sensation fades and I begin walking again. Three steps later, my stomach convulses. The sensation ripples up my torso and I nearly fall to my knees; I can feel it all the way up to my throat.
That evil bastard.
I run to the bathroom and barely make it in time. My entire body spasms as I vomit up the whiskey. I can feel the threads of magic forcing my insides to rid themselves completely of the alcohol, and it’s just as invasive as it was the first time I’d felt his magic stir inside of me.
My knuckles go white as my grip on the porcelain tightens. Now I know what Desmond cashed that one particular bead in for.
Sobriety.
Forget the supernatural bounty hunters that are after him; that fucker is mine.
That night, when Desmond Flynn opens the sliding glass door and saunters into my living room like he owns the place, I’m ready for him.
“I.” I chuck a whiskey bottle at the Bargainer’s head. “Hate.” Now a wine glass. “You.” Now a beer bottle.
The Bargainer’s form disappears the moment each item should come in contact with him. A moment later, he reappears, his body flickering in and out of existence as he heads towards me. Each glass container smashes against the wall behind him, amber and maroon liquid splashing against it and dripping down to the wooden floorboards below.
“That’s not nice,” he growls.
I go to grab more ammunition. My complete supply lines the counters. I’ve decided to use it as target practice since it’s clear I won’t have any other use for it now.
The Bargainer disappears again, and when he reappears, he’s in front of me.
“We have work to do today.”
“You can take your work,” I growl, “and shove it—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, catching my jaw and pressing me back up against the counter. “Be careful what you wish for around me. I’d like nothing more than to take my work and shove it somewhere the sun can never reach.”
I know from past experience that when in a bad mood, the Bargainer loves twisting his clients’ words. The thought makes the siren in me sing—the hussy. The rest of me is madder than hell.
The Bargainer seems to be aware of my conflicted reaction because his pupils dilate. “Time to go.”
“No,” I say obstinately.
“I wasn’t asking.” He drags me away from the counter and walks us across my living room to the back door.
Shards of glass and droplets of alcohol lift from the walls and the ground, the liquid making a path to the sink and the glass to the trash. He’s cleaning up for me again.
I yank against his hold of my wrist, fighting him the whole way. “Des-mond. Let me go. Now.” My siren has taken over my voice, making my angry command sound seductive.
Instead of letting me go, Des throws me over his shoulder.
“Keep talking to me like that, cherub,” the Bargainer says. “You don’t know how much it turns me on.” He pats my ass, and I see red.
“Put me down, you prick!”
But instead of putting me down, he rearranges me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. I try to squirm free, but his hold is like a cage, keeping me in place.
I pinch his back. He swears, and the glass and liquid he’s cleaning up behind us drops to the ground.
“Damnit, Callie,” he says, “don’t make me waste one of your beads on immobilizing you.”
I stare him in the eye as he carries me outside. “I dare you to fucking do it, Des.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t test me. I will, and I’ll enjoy feeling every inch of your skin while you’re forced to sit still.”
I settle for glaring at him. “That was wrong of you,” I say, “to take away my ability to drink.”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, cherub,” he says. “And it’s not permanent if you learn how to drink responsibly.”
The cojones of this man. How can I even learn to drink responsibly if I can’t drink?
I tighten my hold on him as his wings materialize. “I was doing just fine before you meddled in my life.”
He gives a derisive snort. “That’s debatable.”
Once Desmond fades out of sight, I slip inside and head into the kitchen. Earlier, he’d taken a bead from me shortly after he caught me drinking wine. He never explained what exactly he took the bead for, though I have my suspicions.
Now my curiosity gets the best of me. Time to test my theory and hope to God I’m wrong.
Grabbing a bottle of Jameson whiskey from my cupboard, I unscrew the cap, catching the first whiffs of the liquor. I pause for a second. If his earlier repayment is what I think it is, this might be unpleasant. That niggling worry stills my hand only for a moment, and then I tip the bottle back and take a long, deep swig from it.
The whiskey is like liquid amber going down; I can already feel it burning away my nerves. I close my eyes and enjoy the initial sting of it at the back of my throat and the warmth that curls inside my stomach.
A moment later, I relax.
I thought he’d banned me from drinking alcohol, but obviously my theory was wrong.
I put the whiskey away, relieved.
It’s only as I’m padding back to my bedroom that I feel it. My stomach lurches. I swallow and pause. The sensation fades and I begin walking again. Three steps later, my stomach convulses. The sensation ripples up my torso and I nearly fall to my knees; I can feel it all the way up to my throat.
That evil bastard.
I run to the bathroom and barely make it in time. My entire body spasms as I vomit up the whiskey. I can feel the threads of magic forcing my insides to rid themselves completely of the alcohol, and it’s just as invasive as it was the first time I’d felt his magic stir inside of me.
My knuckles go white as my grip on the porcelain tightens. Now I know what Desmond cashed that one particular bead in for.
Sobriety.
Forget the supernatural bounty hunters that are after him; that fucker is mine.
That night, when Desmond Flynn opens the sliding glass door and saunters into my living room like he owns the place, I’m ready for him.
“I.” I chuck a whiskey bottle at the Bargainer’s head. “Hate.” Now a wine glass. “You.” Now a beer bottle.
The Bargainer’s form disappears the moment each item should come in contact with him. A moment later, he reappears, his body flickering in and out of existence as he heads towards me. Each glass container smashes against the wall behind him, amber and maroon liquid splashing against it and dripping down to the wooden floorboards below.
“That’s not nice,” he growls.
I go to grab more ammunition. My complete supply lines the counters. I’ve decided to use it as target practice since it’s clear I won’t have any other use for it now.
The Bargainer disappears again, and when he reappears, he’s in front of me.
“We have work to do today.”
“You can take your work,” I growl, “and shove it—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, catching my jaw and pressing me back up against the counter. “Be careful what you wish for around me. I’d like nothing more than to take my work and shove it somewhere the sun can never reach.”
I know from past experience that when in a bad mood, the Bargainer loves twisting his clients’ words. The thought makes the siren in me sing—the hussy. The rest of me is madder than hell.
The Bargainer seems to be aware of my conflicted reaction because his pupils dilate. “Time to go.”
“No,” I say obstinately.
“I wasn’t asking.” He drags me away from the counter and walks us across my living room to the back door.
Shards of glass and droplets of alcohol lift from the walls and the ground, the liquid making a path to the sink and the glass to the trash. He’s cleaning up for me again.
I yank against his hold of my wrist, fighting him the whole way. “Des-mond. Let me go. Now.” My siren has taken over my voice, making my angry command sound seductive.
Instead of letting me go, Des throws me over his shoulder.
“Keep talking to me like that, cherub,” the Bargainer says. “You don’t know how much it turns me on.” He pats my ass, and I see red.
“Put me down, you prick!”
But instead of putting me down, he rearranges me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. I try to squirm free, but his hold is like a cage, keeping me in place.
I pinch his back. He swears, and the glass and liquid he’s cleaning up behind us drops to the ground.
“Damnit, Callie,” he says, “don’t make me waste one of your beads on immobilizing you.”
I stare him in the eye as he carries me outside. “I dare you to fucking do it, Des.”
His eyes flash. “Don’t test me. I will, and I’ll enjoy feeling every inch of your skin while you’re forced to sit still.”
I settle for glaring at him. “That was wrong of you,” I say, “to take away my ability to drink.”
“It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, cherub,” he says. “And it’s not permanent if you learn how to drink responsibly.”
The cojones of this man. How can I even learn to drink responsibly if I can’t drink?
I tighten my hold on him as his wings materialize. “I was doing just fine before you meddled in my life.”
He gives a derisive snort. “That’s debatable.”
