In the Land of Tea and Ravens (12 page)

~17~

There is this thing about tea. There’s always more than one way to take it. You can drink it hot or cold, strong or weak, and for pleasure or for comfort. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they take their tea. You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she makes it. You can tell even more about a man by the way he accepts it.

~The Tea Girl~

The wilted corn slapped against his jeans as Grayson sauntered through the field, the moon throwing light over everything. Rusted cars and old sheds peered at him through the darkness, a testament to days gone by. It was the story of the South. Here, people were often as reluctant to let go of the past as they were to move quickly forward through life.

Where are you?
Grayson thought.

He’d been watching Lyric for days, his mind toiling over everything he’d learned about her and her family. If he was being honest, it had been toiling as much over what he’d learned about himself through her as it had her past.

“Tell me something,” Grayson called out into the night. “Why is it I’m suddenly obsessed with tea?”

There was laughter amongst the stalks and a flash of a tiered skirt. Everything was silver.
Silver and darkness and strange secrets.
There was life and no time to live it. There was heavy responsibility and guilt. There was shame and regret. There was need and passion. All painted silver.

There was wind and dust and death.

“Because tea is intimate,” Lyric answered.

He saw her skirt before he saw her
face,
the tiered fabric was an unknown color in the darkness, her hair black, skin pale, and eyes colorless.

He
froze,
a row of stalks between them. “Intimate?”

She stared at him, her gaze traveling worn jeans and a hastily thrown on white tank. He seemed taller somehow in the darkness, broader and more scarred.

Her hand captured a corn stalk, her fingers moving over the fragile plant. “It takes time to make tea. There’s a process to it. It isn’t hard, but the way it tastes is all about the way you make it, about what you’re willing to put in it.”

He was closer to her now, his hand finding the corn stalk she held, his fingers wrapping around hers on the plant. Lyric was beautiful, not because she was classically pretty, but because there was often beauty in struggle.

She stared at his hand on hers, her chest rising and falling too quickly. He could almost see her pulse jumping in her neck. “There’s no way to take this slow is there?”

He smiled. “Going slow means having time to think. Do you want to think?”

Her gaze captured his. They were both so complicated, like a mix of tea and alcohol. Smooth, but with a bite. Like a forbidden entrance sign that tempted a person to enter. A red button no one should press, but that needed to be figured out.

“How long have I known you?
A week maybe?”
Sighing, she whispered, “My head’s telling me to leave.”

Grayson stared. “And the rest of you?” he asked. “What’s it telling you to do?”

She was on the tips of her toes, her free hand on his face before she had time to think, her fingers brushing the stubble that he always seemed to have covering his jaw. It was sharp and uncomfortable; it suited Grayson.

Their hands remained entwined on the cornstalk, the bite of the plant a stark reminder of where they were.

Lyric’s mouth sat just below his, her lips full and glowing in the moonlight. Grayson stared down at them. Their panting breaths mingled in the warm night. She smelled like tea, like cinnamon and earth. He smelled like wood smoke and mouthwash.

“There’s no taking this slow,” he growled.

His lips captured hers, the pressure both pleasant and startling. Like fire on gas coated logs. It was more heat than either of them could handle. They were working on borrowed time. He knew it, and she knew it.

Tea and fire; darkness and time.

Somewhere behind them, ravens screamed.

Together, they released the cornstalk, Grayson’s hands coming up to cradle Lyric’s face, his fingers pressing into her flesh. Her hands fell to his shirt, her fingers digging under the fabric to slide up his skin and her lips opening under his. Their tongues tangled, dancing a desperate, searching dance with no rhythm. Chests rose and fell.

Lyric’s hands found Grayson’s scar, her fingers tracing it from his breast to his collarbone, leaving sparks in their wake.

He pulled back, his gaze capturing hers. Her eyes were wide, wild, and completely unguarded.

“Shit, Lyric,” he said.

After ripping his tank off, Grayson gripped her suddenly by the waist, lifting her. Her skirt rode up as her legs slid around his hips, and his hands fell to her backside, his fingers bunching in her skirt. Her hands came up to grip his face, her gaze locked to his.

They were surrounded by dying plants and a night sky full of cawing ravens, a decaying house in the background.

“You’ve got one chance to tell me no,” Grayson said.

He was walking with her to the edge of the field, to the softer grass below the old oak tree.

“Tell me no, Lyric,” he insisted.

She stared at him as he lowered her to the ground, her hands remaining on his face. “Yes,” she breathed.

He laughed, his hand falling to the back of her head to cradle it, her wild hair tangling around his fingers. “Damn it. Do you ever do anything the way you’re supposed to?”

Her eyes were solemn as they searched his. “I’m letting go,” she whispered.

His smile vanished, his hand tightening on the back of her head, his other hand riding up her bare leg beneath her skirt. “What are you doing to me?” he asked.

His fingers found her thighs, and she
arched
against him, her eyes never leaving his. There are a lot of different ways to have sex. There are fewer ways to have conversations with little more than hands, lips, and eyes.

Grayson had had sex. This was something else.

Lyric’s gaze was raw, her face an intricate, intense story. His fingers played softly over parts of her body he doubted she’d shared with anyone else. His gaze remained riveted to her face, to the way the moonlight played over her features.

Her hands found the waistband of his jeans, her fingers struggling with the zipper. It was awkward, but it wasn’t.

Breaths.
Chests rising and falling.
Lips parting.
Touches full of fire. They were shadows in the night, dancing and moving, inhaling and exhaling.

He didn’t enter her; he didn’t have to. Tonight wasn’t about sex, it was about touch.
His touch against her.
Her touch against him.

His lips crushed hers, capturing her gasp and her fears. She was shaking, her body trembling, her cheeks suddenly wet with tears.

His touch grew more insistent, and she whimpered. She didn’t have to ask him, but somehow he knew. Somehow he knew.

“I promise,” he whispered against her ear.

He’d catch her when she fell.

And he did.

~18~

Tea makes a person feel needed. Tea makes a person feel less alone.
Because there is something beautiful about drinking tea, but something even more beautiful about sharing it.

~The Tea Girl~

The next day brought rain, thunder, lightning, and lots of storm warnings. It should have been enough to keep Grayson at home, but his thoughts were too occupied, his mind too full of turmoil.

Upon waking, he’d immediately thought of Lyric—the sight of her face bathed in moonlight, the way she exhaled, the way her cheeks flushed, and the way she watched him. Her eyes were full of things he wasn’t sure he could handle: trust and acceptance.

She was driving him insane.
Which meant something he was too afraid to admit.

The moment he pushed open the door of Delilah’s bar in Hiccup, he knew he’d made a mistake coming there. The bar was full of people with too much time on their hands and not enough drama to discuss. He could feel their eyes on him as he sauntered to the bar.

The woman behind the counter grinned, her grey hair twisted up into a bun, her crinkled eyes leaving web-like trails down the sides of her cheeks. She was the kind of person who’d spent much of her life laughing.

“What can I get
ya
?” she asked.

Grayson glanced over his shoulder at the bent heads and murmuring voices. Balls cracked against each other at the pool tables.

“Something strong,” he answered.

The woman winked. “Got plenty of that here,
boy
.” She pulled a bottle free of the shelf, slid a glass in front of him, and poured. “Don’t see you in here much,” she murmured, her curious eyes trailing his face.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know you.
I’ve known your folks my entire life.”

Grayson nodded politely but didn’t answer.

A decaying house, a moonlit field, cawing ravens, and the whispering moans of a woman he’d promised to catch
if she fell
…

“You ever
gonna
drink that?” a voice asked. “Cause if you
ain’t
, I will.” Grayson’s head shot up, his gaze falling on Freddie Graham’s amused expression. Freddie gestured at the room. “This
ain’t
your sort of place.” He slid on to the bar stool next to Grayson and tapped the bar. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Grayson barely spared him a glance. “How do you know this isn’t my type of place?”

Freddie snorted. “Because you’re on probation, and these kinds of places invite violence.”

“Not in my joint,” the old woman groused. She slid another glass on the bar, filled it, and handed it to Freddie. “You’d do better to show up in here less.”

Freddie laughed and winked, lifting his glass before saluting her with it. “To Aunt Juliet, who thinks she knows what’s best for me.”

The old woman shook her head. “Smart ass,” she mumbled. “He sure as hell didn’t get it from his mama.”

Freddie chuckled. “That’s too high a compliment.” He turned to Grayson, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’ve been chased in here by demons.”

Grayson pushed his drink away. “Depends on what you mean by demons.”

Juliet watched them. “
There’s
only two kinds of demons, boy.
The kind that tempt you and the kind that changes you.”

Grayson glanced between them. “And if it’s both?”

Freddie slapped him on the back. “Then it’s hopeless. Might as well count your losses and play a game of pool. I can’t soothe your soul, but I sure as hell can take your cash. There is often sweetness in sorrow,” Freddie quipped. “This loss will be enough to brighten your day.”

Grayson snorted. “And you think I’ll lose?”

Freddie picked up a cue stick, his gaze on the table. “Yeah, I do.” His eyes slid to Grayson’s. “Because if you spend too much time thinking about where the ball is going to go, the ball either won’t go anywhere or it’ll choose the wrong path.”

Grayson grabbed a cue stick. “Never would have pegged you for a philosopher, Freddie.”

The man leaned over the pool table and used the triangle to rack up the balls. “Life’s a keen teacher. It
ain’t
always age that counts. Sometimes it’s just the shit that happens to get you to the age you are now.” Using his cue stick, he pointed at Grayson. “You break.”

Grayson didn’t move. This wasn’t about a game of pool, and they both knew it. “It was your four-wheeler I heard down at the Miller place yesterday afternoon.”

Freddie leaned on his stick. “People
was
noticin
’ you was
missin
’. I
ain’t
got
no
say what you do over there, but there’s a lot of people here with grudges against that family,
includin
’ your own. That house has long since gone to the county. No one’s touched it in years. They’ve just been
lettin
’ it rot. You bring attention to it, and people are
goin
’ to start
considerin
’ their options. It’d be a shame to see it gone. Even as hazardous as it is.”

Grayson lifted his cue stick and moved to the table. “And you think they’d get rid of it just because I’ve shown an interest in the place?”

Freddie snorted. “It
ain’t
’cause you’re
showin
’ interest in the place.” His knowing look found Grayson’s face. “They’re
lookin
’ for any excuse, and you’re giving it to them.”

Grayson lined up his shot, all
pretense
gone.
“And her?
Isn’t she allowed to have a life?”

“Not here,” Juliet’s voice interrupted. The men glanced up to find the old woman standing next to them, two drinks in her hands. She set them on the side of the pool table. “It’s an injustice, but there’s no future here for anyone in that family.”

Grayson forgot about the shot, his back straightening. “What they’d do that was so terrible?”

Juliet laughed. “Do you think people need reasons? Fear’s enough. A few men go insane and a few strange things happen on the property, and suddenly, they’re modern day witches. The world’s never needed a reason to condemn people, boy. Condemning comes easy. It’s the
forgivin
’ that needs work.”

Grayson stared at her, his gaze locking on the elderly woman’s. Surprised, his lips parted. “You know,” he breathed.

Her chin tilted. “Can’t be close friends with one of ’
em
your entire life without
learnin
’ a few
things.
”

Grayson laid the cue stick on the pool table and picked up one of the amber-filled glasses. “It’s an outlandish story.”

Juliet’s brows rose. “It’s an outlandish world.” She stared at him. “Remember this … so many generations have passed that even the family has forgotten who the true hero in their story was. So many years have passed that everyone, even her own family, has started to blame the tea girl for their predicament. The only crime she committed was
fallin
’ in love. It was jealousy and pride that destroyed what she could have had. There’ll need to come a time when the tea girl’s got to quit
punishin
’ herself, a time when she’s got to quit
runnin
’.”

Freddie watched, his gaze passing between them. “What are you
tryin
’ to say, Aunt Juliet?”

Grayson’s gaze stayed locked on the woman’s. “I’m supposed to stop her from running?”

She grinned, her face wrinkling. “You’re supposed to care enough to try. You’re
runnin
’, too. Maybe it’s time for you both to quit
hidin
’. A little
foolin
’ around
ain’t
goin
’ to do shit.”

Freddie choked, his face turning red as he coughed. “Damn, woman!”

The door at the front of the bar opened, letting in rain and a flash of lightning. A brilliant orange and red skirt swept in, the wearer’s eyes on the counter, her wild hair swept up.

Grayson drained his drink.