Race the Darkness (32 page)

But she didn't want to die. She wanted to live.

She had an absurd desire to hold Lathan's hand again. Even though the tattoo on his face made him look more intimidating than anyone she'd ever met, he'd protected her from Junior and that vaulted him way past stranger-danger status to good-guy-hero level.

“You.” The girl's voice was a command. “Take this.”

The gray spots spread, turned blinding yellow, then black, blotting out the girl. Unable to struggle, unable to breathe, unable to utter a sound, Evanee mouthed the word she wanted to say.
No
.

“Don't say no to me.” The girl's tone deepened beyond its natural level, dipping into the range of the demonic.

The Thing holding Evanee released her. Her knees folded neat as a shirt on the display table at Gap, bringing her down to eye level with the girl. Air sucked into her oxygen-starved lungs. The girl opened her mouth, hurling blood over Evanee in a vindictive arc. The warm slickness of it touched her tongue. Before she could spit it out, its heat snuck down her throat and burned in her belly.

Her arm rose to take the eye. She screamed—
she
didn't raise her arm. The Thing did.

The girl dropped the still-warm eye in Evanee's palm. Across the girl's face spread the smirky smile of a spoiled child who'd just gotten her way.

* * *

Lathan strode down the lonely road. Shimmering stars pierced the charcoal sky, casting silver light on the pavement meandering among the low hills. A chill breeze carried the feral scents of coyote and possum. Predator and prey.

He stepped into his driveway and headed for his back door. The brisk walk to find the shoes she'd lost out on the road had been exactly what he'd needed to unscramble his thoughts and figure some things out. Some things he couldn't allow himself to forget.

Not getting any SMs from her was intriguing, but it had to be just a random, happenstance occurrence. She was nothing more than a woman he was helping for the night, and he couldn't let himself forget that. No matter how miraculous it felt to touch her.

He trudged up the porch steps and through the door. The stench hit him before he made it across the threshold. Garlic. And something rotting, decomposing, dead.

Damn that dog and his fetish for decaying carcasses.

Honey lay on the couch, her gaze locked on Little Man—his two-hundred-pound mastiff. An unfortunate underbite left Little Man's bottom teeth protruding and made him look like Satan's best beast rather than man's best friend.

“That's Little Man. He's harmless.” He set her shoes in the middle of the kitchen table so Little Man wouldn't turn them into tail-wagger toys and looked around for the dead animal. “He won't hurt you. He's really just an overgrown puppy.”

She sprang off the couch, hurdled the coffee table, crashing into him with full-body impact. He caught her tightly to him, smelling her fear, feeling it in the butterfly tremors shaking her body.

“I should've warned you that he might come in.” He inhaled the scent of her hair—cooking oil, nectarines, and sunshine. “He comes and goes through a dog door in the laundry room.”

Her arms slid around him, holding him so tight she could've been his second skin.

His heart crashed against his chest wall. His breath tangled up in his lungs. His gut stung with warmth. She settled her head over his heart. Could she feel it pounding? He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the pleasure of holding her entwine with the regret of knowing this was the first time, the last time, the only time he'd ever be able to hold another human being.

Her lips moved against his chest. He heard the stammering sounds of her speaking.

“…dream…”

Dream
. He'd caught only one word of what she'd said. Did she think Little Man was a bad dream?

He half dragged, half carried her to the couch and sat. She didn't let go of him and ended up across his lap, her buttocks pressing into his dick. Blood drained downward and swelled into his groin. Lava-hot sweat erupted from his pores. Shame formed a molten lump in his gut—knowing what she'd been through, he shouldn't be reacting to her this way. He shifted, moved her down his legs so she couldn't feel his arousal, and then started blabbing to distract her.

“The worst thing Little Man would ever do is lick you. His tongue is six inches wide, seems two feet long, and he slobbers. A lot.” Lathan bent his head to see her mouth, hoping for a smile, but she stared at her hand, her lips pulled back over her teeth in repulsed horror.

She lifted her hand, her slender bicep straining and bulging as if whatever she clutched in her fist weighed too much to raise.

Her fingers fanned opened.

Lathan stared at the object she held. His heart stalled and his brain shuddered to a stop, leaving him thoughtless for a few picoseconds, before everything turned back on and shifted gears in a direction he sure as hell didn't want to go.

An eye. A human eye. In her hand.

Lathan blinked, not quite believing the message his eyes were sending his brain.

“What the… Where'd you get that?” He scented the air and visually scanned his home—only himself, Little Man, and her. No one else had been inside. Nothing was missing or out of place. “Did you leave the house?”

She didn't answer. She looked and smelled befuddled, dazed, stunned.

“Did you find it outside?”

No answer.

Why did she have it in her hand? What would possess her to touch it, pick it up? His innards lurched and sank down into his gut. Was the owner of the eye still alive? He suspected they weren't, and that meant there was a body outside. Nearby.

But he would've smelled a body. He was just out there.

Her hand fell, the enucleated orb went with it, bouncing once, then rolling, iris over white, to a stop in the crevice between the cushions. Her body wilted; her head thunked against his shoulder.

He grabbed her chin, shaking her face. “Honey. Wake up. I need some answers here.” But she was twelve-rounds-with-the-champ out. Fuck.

He cradled her limp form against him and reached into his pants pocket to get his cell phone. He took a picture of the eye, sent it to Gill, and followed up with a text.

Human eye on my couch.

Gill was gonna hit an eleven on the freak-o-meter. Either that or think Lathan was trying to punk him. A moment later, Gill responded.

A little late for Halloween.

Seriously.

You fucking with me?

No.

What happened?

IDK, but I'm pretty sure where there's an eye, there's a body.

Don't move. Don't touch anything. I'll contact Eric on my way.

For the first time since he'd been hired as a special skills consultant, he was going to demand a favor from the FBI, and they would grant it—without question—for the man who had closed more cold cases than everyone else combined. The most important condition of his contract was that his privacy, his total seclusion, be maintained at all times.

He shoved his arm under Honey's legs, lifted her tight against his chest, and stood.

“Little Man. Come.”

The dog didn't move. Didn't blink. His attention focused on the eye.

Lathan nudged the dog's thick haunch with his boot until Little Man gave him
the look
. The I-swear-I'll-never-chew-on-the-table-legs-ever-again-if-you-just-let-me-have-it, please, please, please look.

“No. Leave it.” He put the You're-not-allowed-to-play-with-it-or-eat-it tone in his voice. “Little Man. Come.”

Little Man heaved a giant sigh that fanned his massive jowls outward, but stood and headed upstairs. Lathan followed, carrying Honey. By the time he got into the bedroom, Little Man was settled on his mastiff-sized dog bed in the corner.

“Stay.”

Lathan laid Honey in his bed. Her body was deadweight and awkward, so he adjusted her arms, her legs, her head as if she were a life-sized rag doll until she looked comfortable.

He tore off his gloves, pressed his fingers to her neck, and concentrated on finding her pulse. The steady pressure of her heartbeat tapped against his fingertips with a Morse code rhythm all its own. He laid his other hand on her chest, just below her clavicles, to ensure the rise and fall of her breathing. He tried not to notice how close his hand was to her breasts. Failed.

The side of his hand rested next to the gentle slope of her breast. If he fanned out his pinkie finger—no. He pulled his hand away.

She must've just passed out.

He went into the bathroom, soaped up half the stack of clean washcloths, and washed the lingering scent of decay from her hand.

Her skin was rough and red, her fingers knobby and strong, her nails ragged and short. She had the body and clothing of a stripper, but he expected something more faux sexy than torn-up fingernails and blistered feet. What kind of job abused her hands and her feet? Nothing seemed to fit.

He had questions and not one answer. What was her name? Why didn't he get SMs from her? Why was he able to touch her? Where the fuck did she get a human eyeball?

He stared at her face as if the answers were written in the delicate arch of her brows or in the gentle curve of her lashes. Or in the small sickle-shaped scar at the corner of her mouth that curved upward, giving her the curious appearance of smiling out of one side of her mouth, while the other side frowned.

Her eyelids fluttered. Opened.

“How are you feeling?” That question was more appropriate than interrogating her on how she came into possession of a human eyeball. He'd wait until she was fully conscious before tripping down that trail.

“Cold. So cold.” Goose bumps pimpled over her bare skin. She scooted toward where he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping herself around his hips, seeking his body's warmth.

He
should
get the heavy sleeping bag from the closet. He
should
cover her with it and leave the room.
He should, he should, he should.
He didn't. He pulled off his boots and eased into the bed. She latched onto him before he fully reclined.

She molded herself to him. His shoulder her pillow, her arm around his middle, one of her legs draped over his thighs, her knee just a few miniscule inches from his groin. Everything vanished, except the vivid sensation of her feminine curves burrowing into him, seeking his safety, his comfort, his warmth. She was cool where he was on fire. She was soft where he couldn't bend. She was sweet where he felt bitter.

She fit into his arms, against his body, and into his soul like she was designed especially for him. He wanted to believe he could have a happy ending with her, but his reality was a cruel, hard place where good things just didn't happen. Or if they did, they never lasted.

* * *

Bzzzz.

Evanee's muscles clenched, and she startled from the sudden sound of a phone vibrating.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“Shhh… Honey, it's just my cell,” Lathan whispered against her hair, his breath warm against her skin.

Tension evaporated. What exactly was it about his voice that calmed her? Was it the timbre, the accent… It wasn't quite an accent, more like a lisp, but not? Maybe it wasn't his voice. Maybe it was him calling her
Honey
. Maybe it was him taking care of her—not advantage of her—when she had been as rational and coherent as a zombie. The bleeding feather tattoo on his cheek made him appear more intimidating than any man she had ever met, and yet he had saved her from Junior, and that bought her complete trust. Something not one person in her life had ever earned.

“It's just Gill letting me know he's arrived. He'll be handling things, or at least seeing that they get handled privately.” He slid away from her, just far enough to look down at her.

His pale-gray eyes stood out against his tan. No, it wasn't a tan. He was thickly freckled. Seriously freckled. Boyishly freckled. She should've realized that from the rich reddish-brown of his hair. A smile tugged at her soul. How could she think his tattoo frightening when paired with a face full of friendly freckles?

“You're feeling better.”

It wasn't a question, but she nodded anyway.

“I've got to let Gill in. He's gonna have some questions for you.”

“Questions for me? About Junior?” She hated the tremor in her voice and cleared her throat. “I don't want to press charges or anything. That'd just piss everyone off.” Not only would Junior be mad, Sheriff Rob would be angry, and Mom would be furious—at her—for causing Junior trouble.

While she spoke, Lathan's gaze focused on her mouth. The way he looked at her reminded her of how a man concentrated on a woman's lips before coming in for a kiss—like he was calculating angle, pressure, distance to the target.

“Not about Junior—”

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“Take a few minutes—however long you need—then come downstairs.” He got out of bed and headed for the doorway. A colossal black dog rose from the corner and followed Lathan. A shudder ripped through her.

That she'd had a nightmare wasn't new; that she remembered it was astounding. The dream had
felt
so real, and the part about waking up with the eye in her hand—total mind fuck. Only when she woke up in his bed with him staring down at her did she realize the entire thing had been one long, gruesome dream.

Evanee heard Lathan open the door downstairs, heard him talking, but his words were a low murmur of indistinguishable sound.

“Where're your gloves?” The guy—must've been Gill—didn't quite shout the words, but his tone of disbelief carried up the stairs. “What the fuck does it matter how loud I talk? The louder the better, right?”

Lathan said something, his voice hushed and quiet.

“She? You've got a woman up there? In your bed?” Astonishment laced with consternation dominated Gill's voice.

Time to go downstairs before Gill got the exact wrong idea, which wouldn't be hard—until a few moments ago, she had been contentedly snuggling with Lathan. He was the bright side to the whole Junior situation. A situation she was gonna have to deal with.

Her stomach suddenly felt wrong. Sweat exploded from her pores, dripped down her face, soaked her clothes. Her skin flamed and itched like she'd rolled in a poison ivy patch. Her insides grew hotter than asphalt on a one-hundred-degree day.

It couldn't be the stomach flu. Not now. A groan of impending calamity escaped her mouth.

“What's wrong?” Lathan stood in the doorway.

“I'm going to be sick.” Somehow, she got out of bed, got into the bathroom, and got draped over the porcelain bowl. Thank God and all his fat little angels, the toilet was hygienically clean.

Her stomach contracted. Her throat opened. She wretched a cruel sound halfway between a cough and a sob, but nothing came out. Stomach contracted. Throat opened. Again and again, her innards tried to turn themselves inside out.

A cold cloth pressed against her neck.

She wanted to thank Lathan for that small kindness, but something inside her was wrong. Really wrong. Not just I've-got-the-flu wrong, but I'm-going-to-die wrong. Part of her felt light, untethered from her body, like she was a helium balloon floating into the sky. The other part felt her muscles, her organs tensing, fighting, rallying to save her. Save her from what?

“I need to go to the hos—” Her stomach clenched, choking off the rest of her words. The force of it lifted her body off the ground. Fire scorched up her throat. A scream erupted as black, curdled foulness spewed from her mouth in a giant wash.

She fell forward, unable to hold herself upright. Her eyebrow cracked against the porcelain bowl. Stars winked in front of her eyes.

Lathan snagged her arms, yanked her away from the bowl, and held her back against his chest.

His hands warmed her bare skin. Heat spread up her arms to her shoulders, across her chest to her heart, then pumped outward to her extremities. His hands were twin IVs of feel-good plugged directly into her veins. The pain in her stomach, the throb in her head diminished and then vanished completely. She felt surprisingly all right compared to how she'd felt only seconds ago. Weird.

Lathan shifted her around so she faced his chest and gathered her closer to him. His touch was so gentle, so caring, so intimate it almost brought tears to her eyes. She nuzzled her cheek against his shirt, concentrated on the fabric scratching against her face. Anything to distract herself enough to keep actual tears from forming.

“Gill. Take us to the hospital.” The command in his voice harbored no room for question.

She turned her head to see Gill standing only a few feet away from them. He stared at the toilet, his expression as impassive as plastic. He looked exactly like a full-size, real-life version of the Ken doll Rob had bought her as a butter-up-the-kid present before he'd married Mom. Gill had wavy blond hair and surfer boy looks—or maybe the actual Ken doll had been a Malibu Ken and that's why Gill reminded her of a surfer.

It wasn't fair, wasn't his fault he reminded her of that Ken doll, but she instantly disliked him.

“No hospital. I'm fine now.”

Lathan drew back from her enough to see her face. “What did you say?”

“I don't need to go to the hospital. I'm okay. Really. I'll end up racking up a five-thousand-dollar bill, just to be told I ate something bad.” She needed cash to get out of Sundew before she ran into Junior again. If she saved every penny, she might have enough money to start over somewhere new in two or three months.

Lathan stared at her, his eyes intense, penetrating, like he saw beyond her skin and muscle and bone to the person buried beneath a lifetime full of shit.

“You want to borrow a toothbrush?”

Heat blazed across her face. She slapped her hand over her mouth and nodded.
Dear Holy Mother of Mercy, please don't let him have smelled my breath.

He unwrapped his arms from around her. She suddenly felt exposed, naked, like he'd taken her clothes with him. She didn't look at Ken Doll while Lathan got her a toothbrush, but she felt his gaze roaming over her, judging her clothes, her body, her motives.

Call her childish—she couldn't help herself—but she looked at Ken Doll, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue.

He tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face. “I think she should go to the hospital. That”—Ken Doll pointed at the toilet—“isn't normal.” His voice was as deep as a seventies radio announcer's. And just as sexist—speaking about her as if she weren't standing four feet away from him.

“No. I'm fine.” She snapped the words a little too quickly, a little too loudly to pretend she'd been trying to be polite. Which she hadn't. She should be nicer. The guy really hadn't done anything other than remind her of the past.