The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2 (7 page)

“Never said I play fair.”

After an admonishing sniff, she pushed away from him and sat up. “Now I really need to go take a shower.”

“How about if I join you?”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Right. I wouldn’t get over to the nursing home until dinner.”

Licking his lips, he ogled her heart-shaped ass. “Good point.”

She strutted to the bathroom, and he reluctantly abandoned the bed and padded into the kitchen. After pitching the condom in the wastebasket beneath the sink and washing up, he set about making coffee. With the rich, earthy smell of chicory filling the air, he scrounged in the cupboards for some of the flavored creamer he knew she preferred. Yeah, it’d probably prove how pathetically hopeful he’d been, keeping her favorite creamer on hand, just in case. Still, he’d take looking like a loser if it scored him some brownie points.

Once the coffee was ready, he carried both of their mugs back into the bedroom. He spied Clarissa standing in front of the steamed-up mirror, trying to run his comb through her hair. Catching her grimace as the comb’s teeth caught in a snarl, he plunked the mugs down on the dresser and stepped into the bathroom. He pried her fingers from the comb, earning her startled glance, and gently worked on untangling her wet strands. She remained unusually quiet during the process, her gaze darting away from his whenever he happened to catch her staring at him. Her obvious nervousness over the simple yet intimate act of him brushing her hair only verified his earlier concern. Apparently she was okay with him fucking her, but anything else and she was ready to run for the exit.

Feeling like he was currying a skittish horse, he gathered a long section of her hair in his hand and dragged the comb through to the ends of her damp tresses. “Bet you didn’t know I sideline as a stylist when I’m not tending bar. Or you.”

That last bit managed to return the color to her cheeks, and she nibbled on her bottom lip. “My dad used to brush my hair sometimes. He wasn’t always as gentle as you’re being, but I’d go along with it anyway. I think it gave him something to concentrate on, other than—”

He eyed her profile, waiting for her to finish despite knowing she wouldn’t. When it came to any reference to her past, particularly the years leading up to her mother taking off, Clarissa always automatically shut down communication. He’d learned the hard way not to push her about it after suffering through a week of her silence the last time he’d unwisely brought up the subject of her mother. He released her hair, and she pivoted from him, nearly stumbling in her haste to escape the bathroom.

An old feeling he was all too familiar with sank in his gut while he watched her yank on her bra and panties. Clarissa had retreated into her impenetrable fortress of solitude and pulled up the welcome mat. There would be no admittance for him any time soon.

Chapter Seven

The harsh fumes of antiseptic and industrial-grade disinfectant assailed Clarissa when she entered the lobby of the Lafayette convalescent home. Janet, the day receptionist, glanced up from her magazine and waved Clarissa over to the desk. “They just wheeled your father into the dining room. He’s acting unusually spunky today.”

“Really?” A fraction of the tight heaviness eased behind Clarissa’s sternum. “That’s good.” Hopefully it meant he wouldn’t be on his typical quest to venture down nostalgia lane, dredging up painful memories neither of them needed to obsess over.

“I think it had something to do with his visitor yesterday afternoon.”

Clarissa blinked. “Visitor?” For one terrifying moment her mind veered to Seven.

“Your mother.”

The unexpected reply squeezed the air from her lungs. “What?”

“Your father was so excited,” Janet chattered on, apparently oblivious of the scab she’d just ripped open in Clarissa’s soul. “I take it it’s been a while since they’ve seen each other. Reunions like that always make me teary.” Sniffling, Janet reached for a tissue from the dispenser resting on the corner of the desk.

Not sticking around to hear another word, Clarissa spun and rushed toward the dining room. She spotted her father sitting at a table with three other gentlemen. Her heart cramped. No matter how many times she tried to steel herself, she would never get used to seeing him look so frail.

Sucking in a deep breath, she approached the men. She noticed her father was the only one conversing amongst the group. Judging from the expressions of his breakfast companions, he’d been talking their ears off from the moment he’d joined them. Her suspicions became verified when one of the men turned down the volume on his hearing aid. She tapped her father’s stooped shoulder, and he jerked his gaze upward, causing his bifocals to slip backward on his nose.

“Clarissa!”

A tiny sliver of the panic that’d seized her since learning of her mother’s visit dissolved as she took in her dad’s beaming smile. Today he remembered her. The realization was bittersweet because she knew that tomorrow he’d likely forget. Dropping onto her haunches, she leaned in to peck his wrinkled, papery cheek. She used the opportunity to blink away the moisture collecting in her eyes before shifting her head and returning his grin. “Hi, Pops.”

“She came back. Told you she would.”

The ache resettled in her chest as she surveyed the unrestrained jubilation shining on her father’s face. He looked so damn happy. All she could do was pray that he’d forget about her mother’s visit come tomorrow. Because she didn’t think she could handle having to be the one to break his heart all over again.

Not a second time.

“She asked about you. Wanted to know if you’re doing okay.”

A mixture of wariness and anger stiffened her spine. After all these years, the woman wanted to know how she was doing? Gee, how fucking maternal of her.

“I would have told her where to find you, but I…I couldn’t remember your address.”

The distress that flashed across her father’s features instantly overruled her silent grievances. She reached for her dad’s trembling hands and tucked them within her own. “It’s okay. If she really wants to see me, she can look me up in the phone book.”
Please, goddess, see to it that she doesn’t.
Not that she expected her mother to do any such thing. If she hadn’t done so by now, why would she?

Then again, the woman hadn’t sought out Clarissa’s father in all these years. What had possessed her to do so now? Or more to the point—what did she want?

Whatever her mother was up to couldn’t be good. Steely resolve armored Clarissa’s doubts. She’d do whatever necessary to protect her father from further heartbreak.

A portion of her panic resurfaced when she realized that come next Sunday, she’d no longer be around to watch over him. She stared at his wrinkle-lined face, hopeless defeat swamping her as he started jabbering away at his tablemates again. The cruel irony of her predicament wasn’t lost on her. To protect her father, she was willingly turning over her soul to Seven. But after she was gone, who would safeguard her dad from future threats? She would have to find someone to assume the responsibility. Someone she could trust. Her first instinct was Logan. Goddess knows, he was capable of taking over the job. The only sticky part would be getting him to agree without explaining why she needed him to look after her father.

Her temples began to throb as she contemplated that unpleasant conversation. She had six days to come up with something, no point in giving herself an ulcer over it just yet. Besides, there was one step she could make now that would take care of the biggest of her worries—her mother. She pushed to her feet and returned to the lobby. The reception desk was unmanned. Janet must have stepped away to use the restroom or help a resident or staff member. Drumming her nails on the counter, she eyed the overhead clock.

The heavy scuff of soles treading across the linoleum flooring squeaked farther down the corridor. She turned to see if it might be Janet but spotted one of the orderlies maneuvering a stocked cart from the supply closet. He swung the door shut and continued across the hall. Clarissa’s gaze remained riveted to the spot just beyond the closet, where two figures were bent close together, engaged in what looked to be an engrossing conversation. She stared at Seven, a shiver of foreboding heralding a colony of goose bumps along both her arms. This wasn’t the same personality who’d sealed their contract with a kiss last night. Instead, it was the grizzled, potbellied trucker she’d tracked down seven years ago and begged to exchange the contract on her father’s soul for her own.

What was it doing here?

A hot wash of anger sizzled through her as the obvious answer materialized. Seven was contracting more souls. And preying on the helpless elderly in the process.

That fucking, heartless son of a bitch.

“Ms. Miles, there you are.”

Janet’s perky announcement was loud enough to draw every gaze within two hundred feet. Including Seven’s. The creature locked stares with Clarissa, the mouth tucked within that overgrowth of beard curving in a sinister grin. Plump fingers tapped against the bill of the green-and-white baseball cap smashed low on Seven’s wide brow, giving Clarissa a mocking salute.

Janet stepped forward, momentarily blocking Seven from view. She held out a matchbook. “I found this on the floor in front of my desk. You must have dropped it earlier.”

Clarissa gaped at the large red T stamped on the matchbook’s glossy cover. Equally repelled and captivated, she reached for the matchbook. She flipped it open, her pulse stuttering at the sight of the name scrawled in blue ink.
Barry Tatum
.

She remembered how shaky her fingers had been while writing that name in this very matchbook seven years ago. Remembered the weeks of agonizing she’d put herself through while she’d struggled over the decision to set her plan in motion—the plan that literally brought her life crashing down around her.

Now the matchbook was back. Another reminder of her guilt.

“Are you okay?”

Janet’s concerned tone snapped Clarissa out of her daze. She lifted her head, her gaze skipping past the receptionist to the far corner.

Seven was gone.

Swallowing past the unease tightening her throat, she glanced at Janet. “I’m fine. Or I will be, after you promise to restrict my father’s visitor list.”

The receptionist frowned. “But—”

“Promise me.”

Finally clued in to the severity of the situation, Janet bobbed her head. “Okay, if that’s what you want. Who do you wish to restrict?”

Clarissa took a deep breath. There was only one answer that’d keep out a creature that could wear a variety of faces. “Everyone.”

Chapter Eight

Logan silently bitched to himself while he mopped a bar rag across the handful of damp condensation rings topping the counter. The one downfall to the lunchtime crunch fizzling to a trickle of customers was now he had way too much time to mull over his situation with Clarissa.

If he’d hoped for one damn minute that sleeping with her would cure him of his constant obsession, his present state of mind more than kicked that fallacy square in the balls. Only now it wasn’t ruminations about how sweet she might taste or what kind of sounds she made when she was seconds away from coming that consumed his every waking thought. No, he knew all too well the answers to those burning questions. His current dilemma—and the reason for his unflagging erection for the past four hours—was anticipating all the things he’d do to Clarissa the next time they were in bed together.

Realistically, twenty-four hours wouldn’t be adequate time for everything he wanted to do. Hell, a lifetime would be cutting it pretty damn short. And that was another sobering conclusion he’d come to. A night or two would never be long enough to get Clarissa out of his system.

Any lingering illusions he might have tried to fool himself with in regards to his feelings for Clarissa were now dead. This went miles beyond desire and obsession. The awful pain that’d ripped through his rib cage when she’d dashed from his house this morning and sped off like the hounds of hell were snapping at the Miata’s tailpipe had hammered the final nail in his coffin.

He was bat-shit crazy in love with Clarissa Miles, the woman who lived by the motto of allowing no one past the closely guarded gate shielding her heart. Hell if that wasn’t a big-ass fucking complication that would likely make him drink himself into an early grave. He eyed the empty bottle of Bud that rested on the corner of the bar like a taunting premonition of his fate. Grimacing, he scooped up the offender and chucked it into the recycle bin beneath the counter. The frantic, staccato tap-tap of heels on the wooden floor planks drew his gaze upward just as Willa wobbled to a halt in front of the bar.

She plunked a purse that could easily be mistaken for a piece of luggage onto one of the stools and blew her bangs out of her eyes before straightening her glasses. “Please tell me the kitchen didn’t forget Domino’s lunch again. Otherwise I might be forced to do something stupid that will earn me a spot on the six o’clock news.”

He rubbed his goatee. “Depends. Would this something stupid involve public nudity?”

“No, I’m thinking more along the lines of homicidal rage.”

Feigning disappointment, he reached for the phone bolted to the support post located near the taps. “Let me check with Paolo.” After a thirty second conversation where the temperamental cook managed to curse a dozen times, disparage Emeril Lagasse and point out that they were out of the shrimp-gumbo special, Logan secured the phone back in its cradle and gave Willa a sympathetic smile. “That trigger finger isn’t too itchy, is it?”

A menacing noise came from the back of Willa’s throat before she slumped against the stool. “Domino is going to have a fit. More than her typical one, too, since her damn one-meal-a-day diet is making my life hell.”

Logan swept the bar rag into the sink with his palm. “Don’t you mean
her
life?”

“No, definitely mine. And I don’t even get the benefit of losing a few inches around my waist.”

He flicked an appraising look down the length of her tan, plain-Jane suit. “Sugar, the last thing you need to lose is weight. You’re already a dead ringer for that model who’s named after some kind of moss.”