Weaver of Dreams (9 page)

Foster grabbed a beer from his fridge—his seventh of the night—muttering under his breath about how they just didn’t get the job done any longer. Used to be enough beer could quiet the voices in his head, but now it just seemed to make them louder. The bottle of pills sitting next to the stove caught his attention as he turned.

“Maybe I should take my meds.” He shrugged. “The doctor says they help.”

You don’t need them,
the voices in his head whispered.
You’re fine.

The pills didn’t really work. Not like the alcohol did . . . Used to.

He staggered into the living room, and plopped down on the torn couch with too much force. His beer sloshed over the lip of the can, wetting his hand and leg.

“Dammit to hell,” he wiped the frothy liquid from his jeans.

Yes, dammit all to hell,
the voices taunted him.
Damn you to hell.

“No. No you don’t,” Foster yelled back. “I don’t want to hear it!”

He grabbed the remote from the dusty coffee table and pushed the power button. With a click, the TV came to life, sending a loud scream into the room. Realizing a horror flick played, he quickly changed the channel to the local news. The news wouldn’t be bloody, wouldn’t have anyone screaming at him.

He didn’t need to see any more horror. His dreams lately had been more than enough. They were terrifying. Bloody images and those creepy people filled his dreams. He wished he never needed to go to sleep ever again.

Sleep is good. We want more blood. More guts.

He hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time in years. Horrific nightmares plagued him. Grotesque images of death filled his dreams as a recurring theme.

Sweet, bloody death.

His sweat soaked sheets remained on his bed. He saw no reason to change them. He would just soak them again tonight once he lost his battle to stay awake.

Sleep. Go to sleep. Dream for us.

“Stop it!” he screamed. “Shut up.”

He turned the TV volume up, hoping to drown out the voices. A pretty woman with reddish hair appeared on screen. Below her image the caption read MARGRET O’CONNELL—EVANS HIGH SCHOOL GUIDANCE COUNSELOR.

Evan had been his step-daddy’s name. He hated the abusive son of a bitch. Mean as a rattlesnake and as strong as a silver back gorilla, the bastard was a zoo all to himself.

An animal who deserved to die.

Foster chuckled. “Oh, yeah. He died all right. I saw to that.”

With an axe and a baseball bat. They are still in your closet. Trophies of your success.

“I need to clean them.”

Pretty red stains. Leave them.

The sound of the woman’s high voice drew Foster’s attention.

“. . . and so upon careful review of the student’s file, the District investigators found no wrong doing on behalf of school personnel.” The pretty woman’s tongue darted out to wet her lips before she continued. “While it is regrettable the student was not found eligible for a program that would allow him to access the state’s scholarship to attend a private school, we cannot falsify test results or eligibility paperwork. It would be unethical for the school to do so. Thank you. I have no further comment.”

Foster watched with regret as the lead anchor came back on screen throwing the broadcast to the sportscaster. He could care less about the scores for the hometown college team or the National League, but he supposed anything must be better than watching the damned horror movie on the other channel. Too bad the interview hadn’t been longer. He wouldn’t mind watching that woman some more.

Foster took a long pull from his beer. The counselor was a pretty little thing. Her lips looked so kissable. Her mouth was the perfect shape to bring a man pleasure.

You want to fuck her.

Oh, yeah. The voices knew what they were talking about on that score.

He bet she would feel good with her legs wrapped around his waist. She could be the schoolteacher to his naughty schoolboy—might even spank him.

Spank her. HARD. She would enjoy the pain.

Pain could be good. He knew first hand.

Foster put his beer down on the table and rolled up his sleeve. He looked down at the circular scars that dotted his forearms. He earned those cigarette burns—Evan assured him of that.

They were his personal war wounds. They proved he survived, to win the war.

Won the war by killing the general.

Yeah, he’d killed Evan good. He came home from school one day to find Evan beating on his mama. She cowered in the corner with him standing over her raining blows down on her face. Her blood sprayed out, hit Foster’s shoe. Seeing Mama’s blood enraged the voices. Until that afternoon, they had only demanded he hurt animals and insects.

But we wanted more. Your mama needed to be avenged.

He ran to his room and grabbed his baseball bat out of the closet. Foster whacked his step-daddy upside his head so hard he dropped to the floor.

It felt so good.

He beat the monster unconscious, over and over.

Like a Whack-a-Mole game.

His smashed head oozed blood onto the carpet.

Pretty, pretty blood.

“Not as pretty as the little guidance counselor,” Foster murmured.

He ran a hand over his scruffy beard, enjoying the rough feel of his whiskers before he grabbed his beer from the table. Chugging the remainder of the cold liquid, he slammed the emptied can back down on the table. His body heated as the alcohol warmed his stomach, gave him a slight rush.

Finally! The buzz had arrived.

Not as good as the buzz from a fresh kill.

His cock pushed painfully against the zipper of his jeans making his thoughts return to the pretty guidance counselor.

She would be prettier lying before you with her head severed from her neck.

Dead? But she hadn’t done anything.

She is keeping the boy from getting his scholarship.

But she just followed the law.

She should do what is right, even if it’s against the law. Like you did getting rid of your step-daddy.

He wished they would shut up. That was different.

Is it? Or is she just a bully, keeping a boy down like Evan did to you?

“Shut the fuck up!” Foster yelled, his voice echoing off the sparse walls. “Just shut up!”

He pushed up from the couch. On unsteady feet, he made his way down the hall to his bedroom, bouncing from wall to wall. Man, he wished the apartment would stop tilting. That’s what he got for living in government housing.

You’re too good to live here.

“I know.”

He pushed through his bedroom door and flopped down onto the bed, throwing one forearm over his eyes. Instantly the image of the pretty woman from the news appeared. Her shiny hair and beautiful face teased him. He hardened as he thought about her long lashes and unusually colored eyes. They were like a cat, green but with a hint of yellow.

Like a demon’s. She’s evil.

If she’s the devil, then take him to hell.

God what he wouldn’t give to fuck her. He could almost feel her lips around his dick. He’d fuck her mouth good. Then he’d bend her over the closest table to teach her who was her master.

You are the master. You have the power. Over her. Over life and death.

Images of the woman and what he would like to do to her danced before his closed eyes. His fingers fumbled with his jeans, releasing the button. The sound of the zipper pulling down made him lick his lips. His cock sprang free into his waiting hand.

Maggie watched the press approaching the front of her school. There wasn’t a friendly face in the bunch. The lights from the cameras blinked like Rudolph’s nose, telling her they were already recording her every move . . .

Her heart sped up, and her throat constricted. She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her pants, hoping no one noticed. Her mouth went dry, not the best thing to have happen when about to speak.

She couldn’t do this. She just knew she would freeze up on camera. Some spokesperson she’d turn out to be.

Her legs began to tremble. She knew the reporters could see her shake.

Were they leering at her? Did they know her fear was consuming her?

The tremors moved north until her entire body shook. She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. No sound, not even a squeak.

Maggie cleared her throat and tried again. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said clearly. Ah-ha success! “I want—I want . . .”

What did she want? Her mind went blank, totally, utterly blank.

Having spent the entire day memorizing what the District wanted her to say, now, just as she began the recitation, it disappeared. Vanished from her mind like a magician’s trick.

The realization that she stood before the taping cameras and did not have a clue what to say took her knees out from under her. She went down, her skirt flying up around her ears.

Maggie’s cheeks heated with a flush. Her arms scrambled to lower her skirt, but it wouldn’t go down. The material covered her mouth and nose. It tightened around her head, suffocated her. She struggled to breathe. Each inhale drew material instead of air into her mouth.

Her chest constricted, fought for oxygen. Then the jerking started. Her body began to convulse with its need for air.

As nightmares went, this may not be the worst one she’d ever had, but it certainly could be considered the most embarrassing. At least she would pass out soon if her lungs did not get some air. Then she’d wake up safe and sound in her bedroom.

The rational thought did little to calm down the heart that beat a furious rhythm in her chest. She continued to fight for air until her brain hurt and her legs went numb.

Darkness tunneled in and took what little light came through the material over her face. This was it. Her suffering would end soon.

When the material of her skirt suddenly left her mouth, Maggie drew in a deep breath of air. Oxygen coursed through her blood, bringing a rush of adrenaline to flood her cells.

She felt herself gathered into a set of strong arms. A man she realized, his masculine scent surrounding her when he stood. His biceps flexed when they took her weight. Too weak to wrap her arms around his neck, she let them dangle and simply lay against the broad chest of the man carrying her.

Her eyes still closed, she concentrated on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. She didn’t care where he took her as long as the way led away from the cameras and the reporters.

The sound of running water opened her eyes.

She looked about and found herself in a Victorian style bath. Pink and brown velvet wallpaper covered the walls, with its flocked lace pattern. A toilet designed with a high tank and a pull chain sat against one wall. Beside it, an antique sink stood on its pedestal, matching the toilet in porcelain white.

Across from the pair, a white claw-footed tub, large enough to fit two, sat under a huge oval mirror in a gilded frame. The water ran in the tub from the showerhead positioned above, the sound soft and soothing like a gentle summer rain.

She noticed, though the water flowed steadily, the tub did not fill. Maggie dismissed the oddity by assuming the drain must be open. Steam rose to fill the room, creating a humid haze that settled over her skin.

Maggie looked up at into the eyes of the man holding her, not surprised to find Zane looking at her, his azure eyes searching hers. Her heart continued to beat quickly in her chest, though she could not be sure whether it was from the adrenaline still coursing through her veins or from seeing Zane.

“Are you all right?” Zane sat down at the vanity, and nestled her on his lap.

Her nightmare just turned into a dream. “I’m fine.”
Now
.

Her dream man quirked one brow and gave her a look that said he did not believe her.

“Okay,” she confessed, “I’m not entirely fine, but I will be now that you are here.”

His chest swelled at her side as his arms tightened around her in a warm hug. He rested his chin on top of her head. “I hate when you have bad dreams.”

“Me too.”

“What did those TV reporters want with you?”

It felt so right in his arms. She allowed his strength to surround her. It comforted her, gave her the courage to accept the nightmare might truly be over. A contented sigh left her lips.

“I had to give a press conference. My boss forced me to do it.”

“And,” he prompted.

“And it didn’t go well.”

“In the real world or in this dream.”

Surprised, she pushed away from his chest to meet his concerned stare. “You know this is a dream?”

“Of course. You do too, Maggie.”

“Yeah, but usually the people I conjure for my dreams have no clue they aren’t real.”

She pinned him with a suspicious glare. “How is it you know this isn’t real?”

He gathered her back against his chest, tucking her head against his shoulder, as though he could no longer bear to look her in the eyes.

“Tell me about the real press conference,” he requested in a blatant attempt to distract her.

His hand brushed up and down her back in a soothing rhythm causing her to melt against him. If he wanted her distracted, he picked the perfect way to do it. “It went okay I guess.”

“I’m sure you didn’t collapse in a heap with your skirt up around your head,” he correctly surmised.

Maggie giggled. “No.”

“I love the sound of your laugh. You don’t do that nearly enough, sweetheart.”

He rocked her ever so gently, the movement barely noticeable, like a wave created by a gentle breeze on a river. “So the press conference went well.”

“I wouldn’t say that. My nerves took over and showed on camera. When I watched the news tonight my voice didn’t sound right. I sounded like a shaky elf.”

“I’m sure no one else thought so.”

“Mark did. He called to tell me so.”

Maggie felt Zane stiffen. The rocking stopped, as his arms tightened around her. “Who is this Mark and where can I find him.”

Maggie chuckled. “My hero. Going to avenge my honor are you?”

Zane’s arms loosened slightly. “I would love to be your hero, Maggie. I am yours to command. What do you wish me to do? Shall I fight a dragon? Destroy this Mark? You name it and it is done.”

Too bad this man wasn’t real. She could use a real-life hero to help her fight her battles. And she knew several battles lay ahead. The worst had yet to come. She could feel it in her bones. Trouble was on the way.

Maggie looked over at the claw-footed tub. What she wouldn’t give to have a long, hot bath. The tub instantly filled with steaming water.

“Your wish is my command.” Zane rose with her cradled in his arms. He lowered her slowly to the floor. Her body slid down his in a sensuously slow slide. Maggie could feel every hard muscle on the man through his clothes. Her hands grasped his biceps to anchor her in place as a rush of desire coursed through her.

Her eyes drank him in. Tonight he wore a pristine dark gray dress shirt, opened at the collar to reveal a tantalizing bit of tanned flesh. The cut of his tailored dress slacks fit nicely over his hips and thighs. Dark gray, like his shirt, his pants led down to classic dress shoes.

He looked like a bank executive come home after a day at the office and Maggie loved the thought of playing his loving wife. He looked good enough to eat and based on the gleam in his eyes, he felt the same way about her.

She saw the passion glisten in the depths of his eyes. His long lashes could not hide his feelings for her as he looked down at her with possession and desire so stark it burned over her, heating her skin.

Warmth spread throughout her, pooled low in her belly. Her lust rose. Before she realized the thought was in her mind, she stood on her tiptoes and locked lips with her dream man.

Their lips met in a hard, passionate kiss. His mouth opened to hers, allowed her entry into his scalding cavern of fire and heat.

Pleasure rolled through her, sending her soaring into the heavens. It coursed through her blood, warming her, sending a gush of hot moisture to her most sensitive spot. Her body pulsed, her core throbbing in time to her increasing heartbeat.

His tongue pushed into her mouth, took control of their kiss. He explored her mouth thoroughly, tasting her kiss.

She opened her mouth further, begging for a deeper exploration. He obliged, his tongue teasing and dancing, as she pushed aching breasts against his chest.

His hand slid down her arm, to find her thigh with rough fingers. He wrapped his hand behind her knee and pulled her leg up to his waist, bringing her sensitive core up against the hard evidence of his own arousal.

He ground against her, his thick shaft pushing deliciously against her feminine channel through their clothes. Maggie groaned mindlessly. His kisses were addictive. Her mind thickened in a fog, hazy with passion. She burned alive under his touch.

He bit at her lower lip. The slight sting sent lightning sizzling through her belly, and a fresh gush of cream rushing low. His lips feathered tiny kisses down her jaw to her neck. Teeth nipped at her delicate skin. In that moment, his behavior—more rakish than gentlemanly—sent a thrill through her. He seemed to lose control. His kisses became more demanding.

And Maggie loved it.

Knowing he acted as out of control as she felt, made her feel powerful, wanton. She ground her core against him, demanding release. Begging for it.

A soft keening sound could be heard. From him? From her? She couldn’t tell. She no longer knew where he ended and she began.

He pulled her leg tighter against his body, thrusting his hips against her. If not for the barrier of their clothes, she could have him exactly as she really wanted him. Inside her.

With each thrust of his hips, he rubbed her sensitive nub through the material. The sinuous sensation sent pleasure sizzling through her, pushed her over the precipice.

The little pop of warmth came suddenly and Maggie shuddered in his arms. But even as the first ripples faded, Zane’s lips worshipped her neck with kisses, ratcheting her body higher still. His lips barely touched her flesh. The feather-light caresses made her core clench hard, drawing the last of her release from her.

She sagged against him, allowed his strength to hold her up as her thighs quivered. Lordy that man could kiss. If his kisses felt like heaven, she could only imagine what making love would be like.

“Aren’t dreams great?” she asked in a breathy voice, her head lolling to one side to give him better access to her neck as his fingers began popping the buttons on her blouse.

Zane smile against her skin. “You have no idea just how great they can be, sweetheart, but I intend to show you.”