Читать книгу Fangs For The Memories - Kathy Love - Страница 8

“Hey, baby, you lookin’ for a little holiday cheer?” Rhys paused on the sidewalk in front of a run-down bar and glanced over at two women leaning against the side of the building. They both smoked cigarettes, the smoke escaping their red lips, mingling with the steam of their breath in the icy night air. Their shabby winter coats were opened wide to reveal their thin bodies clad in skimpy, clinging dresses. One shivered, but still managed to shoot him a desperately inviting look.

And he thought he was having a shitty Christmas Eve.

“I’m looking for a drink,” he told them, gesturing to the bar’s door with a slight jerk of his head.

“Oh, come on, honey,” the one who had voiced the invitation coaxed, “I’ve got some mistletoe right here.” She threw down her cigarette, shoved away from the wall and waved a plastic sprig toward him.

It was imitation holly, but Rhys didn’t see much point in mentioning that fact. “Sorry, no.”

“Well, after you’ve had yer drink, gorgeous, I’ll be waitin’ for ya.” She smiled, reaching out to trail the fake greenery down the lapel of his coat.

Rhys didn’t respond and stepped past her to push open a windowless door sporting a tattered wreath. Before slipping into the smoky darkness of the bar, he stopped and looked back at the two prostitutes.

Even though they were young, if his senses were correct only in their late teens, they looked old, haggard. The reverse of him—with his youthful body and ancient existence.

On impulse, he reached into his pocket for his wallet.

The one closest to him watched his movement, the tip of her tongue running hungrily over the unnatural red of her lips. The one still against the wall stepped closer, her eyes also fastened to his movement, avarice burning in her dark eyes.

No, not the reverse, he realized. Not at all. They were truly just the same. Hunger ruling them, making them do things they never believed they would. The only difference was their bitterness was etched into their skin, where his was deceptively hidden, eating at his insides.

Rhys’s hand stilled for a moment, but then he did pull out his money. He supposed he deserved to pay for feeling sympathy for these two. It must be that it was the season. He wouldn’t let his hard-learned lessons slip his mind again.

He withdrew two bills. “Find a warm place to stay tonight.”

The one near him snatched the money from his hand. Her eyes widened as she noted the denomination. “Thanks, mister.” She immediately walked back to her coworker. “Come on, girlfriend. Let’s go party!”

The two clacked away on worn high heels. Now that their need was satisfied, Rhys was forgotten.

Again, just like his kind, he thought tiredly. Getting what they crave, then moving on.

He entered the bar, and the door slammed shut behind him. He was immediately enfolded in a hazy, surreal glow of blue and red neon. He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a scotch, neat.

“You want to run a tab, mister?”

Rhys nodded and took a deep swallow of the fiery liquor. Setting the glass down, he twisted, his back to the bar, to survey the room. The small place was quite busy. On Christmas Eve, no less.

He twisted back to his drink, staring into the amber liquid. He appeared oblivious to the rest of the room, but if anything, he was more aware of what was going on around him than when he’d been glancing around.

The two men a few stools away were regulars here. They drank whiskey and water and smoked filterless cigarettes. The one closest to him was complaining that his wife had left him. Of course, he didn’t mention that he’d beaten her for years before she’d finally worked up the nerve to go.

The woman at the end of the bar wore cheap perfume and an abundance of AquaNet. She was waiting for someone—a lover. Rhys could practically taste the craving radiating from her. Although Rhys couldn’t quite tell if the lust was for the man or for the drugs he would also provide.

The four men playing pool were friends and deep in their cups, celebrating. Not the holiday season but the fact that the one with the boyish face, which disguised a soul that was extremely dark, had just been released from prison. Out on good behavior, and looking to undo all that proper conduct.

These were the types that were in seedy bars on Christmas Eve—people without families or love or lives. The lost, the hungry, the violent.

And then there was him. So full of hunger, it almost crippled him.

He polished off the remainder of his drink and signaled to the bartender for a refill.

Drinking numbed him. Alcohol didn’t affect him as it did normal people, but it did insulate him. It anesthetized his feelings and made him capable of living in his own skin. But ultimately, the liquor never did what he wanted it to do. It never killed that raging hunger—the hunger that constantly ate away at him. No, only one thing appeased that, and even then, it was nothing but a quick fix. A brief reprieve from the gnawing in his soul.

He nearly snorted out loud. His soul? Yeah, right, he’d lost that a long time ago.

The bartender returned with another drink. Rhys took a long swallow, closing his eyes to savor the smoky flavor, when a prickling danced over the back of his neck.

He shifted on the barstool, searching for the being that managed to so abruptly shift the foul hopelessness of the room.

She stood in the doorway, looking every inch of her five feet out of place. A tiny woman with pixielike, dark hair and huge eyes. Even in the distorting neon glow of the room, Rhys could tell they were green—a true green.

An innocent fey creature lost in a harsh, cold land. Rhys raised an eyebrow at his thoughts. There must be something in the air tonight; he was never so fanciful. Besides, he thought bitterly, he was the only otherworldly creature here.

He took another deep swallow of his drink, still watching her over the rim of his glass. The small woman glanced around, nervousness clear on her face. Then, to his surprise, she straightened her shoulders and headed to the bar.

She climbed onto the stool next to his and waited for the bartender to come take her order. Still, when he did, she took a moment to consider what she wanted.

Again she surprised Rhys by asking for a tequila shot, although there was a faint rise at the end of her request as though she wasn’t quite sure if a tequila shot was a real drink.

Rhys pretended to focus on his scotch, but he continued to center his attention on her. Not only was she nervous, but she was miserable, filled with hurt and anger and…despair. But all those strong emotions couldn’t overshadow her natural scent. She smelled fresh and sweet like flowers warmed by sunshine. He couldn’t remember the last time he had smelled a mortal that untainted, that pure. Not an adult mortal anyway.

All too quickly, her fresh scent was overwhelmed by another smell, which couldn’t be masked by the strong odor of stale beer and cigarette smoke. It swirled around each of the people like spun sugar—enticing, yet sickening to Rhys because of its sweet intensity.

He swallowed and concentrated on the woman’s wholesomeness. He could suppress his reaction to the other scent, the smell of blood. He did all the time, but it was harder than usual tonight. It always was once he’d made up his mind that he would feed.

But he’d do that later—picking from the worst of the lot. It wouldn’t be difficult tonight—many of the patrons here were so bad they were completely lost. Lost to redemption—just like him.

And then there was this woman. Why was she here? She certainly didn’t belong here, but he didn’t need preternatural abilities to tell that. She was dressed in a green wool skirt with matching blazer. The white blouse she wore underneath was simple and plain. Her leather pumps were sensible.

The outfit was modest and practical, but she looked far from dowdy. The skirt displayed her well-shaped calves and gave brief flashes of a little thigh. But it was her face that captivated Rhys. Not a classically beautiful face, but she had sweetness to her features, full lips, a small pert nose and those huge eyes. Her eyes alone were enough to hold him spellbound.

He frowned. No mortal in his two hundred years had held so much interest for him. He supposed it must be the fact that she was so obviously out of place that intrigued him. Or maybe because she reminded him of the place where he’d once come from—where people were good and kind and loved one another.

The bartender returned to her with the shot, a slice of lime in another shot glass and a shaker of salt.

The pixie stared at the objects with obvious confusion. She glanced around, her eyes stopping on him for a moment. She immediately looked away.

After another moment, she took the lime from the glass. She frowned at the segment, then started to squeeze it into the shot of liquor.

A masculine hand clasped hers, stopping her.

“Hi there,” the boyish-faced ex-convict said. “Want me to show you how to do that?”

The pixie hesitated again, and Rhys sensed her wariness. Smart girl. But then she straightened and nodded. “Yes. Please.”

The ex-convict raised a hand and called to the bartender for a shot for himself.

Rhys watched as the ex-convict demonstrated the proper way to do the shot. Lick, salt, lick, shot, then lime. The pixie mimicked him, except she sputtered and coughed around her slice of lime.

“Not bad,” the man told her, once she’d stopped gagging. His eyes roamed over her, and Rhys could tell that the comment was as much about the woman herself as her drinking style.

The ex-convict’s eyes lingered on her legs, and that suggestion of lovely thigh. Lust mixed with violence quivered just under the surface of his friendly good looks.

Rhys suppressed a wave of irritation—aimed as much toward the woman as the convict. Why was she here? She should be with her family in front of a twinkling Christmas tree, singing carols. Hell, what he wouldn’t give to be with his family one more time.

The ex-convict snapped his fingers and requested two more shots.

Rhys shifted on his seat. He should step in. Instead he sipped his own drink. He remembered the prostitutes. He’d done his good deed for this year. With a few days to spare, even.

“Hey, Joey, you gonna spend the night scammin’ on chicks, or are you going to hang with your boys?”

Joey gave the pixie a sheepish look. He was as deceptive and dangerous as any of Rhys’s kind. “Sorry, I’ve got money on this game.”

The woman nodded. “That’s fine. Thanks for the instruction.”

Joey’s smile deepened; arousal laced with a cruelty flashed in his eyes. “No problem. And who knows, maybe you can show me a trick or two yourself sometime?”

“Okay,” she agreed, completely missing the innuendo in his words.

Joey returned to his buddies, and Rhys made up his mind that the ex-convict would be his Christmas dinner.

The bartender arrived with the two shots Joey had ordered, placing them before the pixie.

She opened her mouth as if she was going to tell him to take the drinks back, but instead she sighed and then, almost reluctantly, licked the expanse of skin between her forefinger and thumb. She dashed a liberal amount of salt to the wetted area.

Rhys watched as her small, pink tongue reappeared and lapped over her skin, and for the first time in a long time, desire unrelated to the hunger shot through him.

She swallowed the shot, managing to down all the golden liquid with only a violent shudder as she reached for the lime.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed him staring at her. With the lime still in her mouth, she turned to frown at him. Her eyes showed only the briefest flash of wariness before she glared at him.

“What are you looking at?” she demanded, after she had plucked the citrus fruit out of her mouth.

His eyes moved from her lips, glistening with juice, and he shook his head. He returned his attention to his drink, although his body was still fixating on how that mouth would feel sucking on him.

What the hell had gotten into him tonight?

Jane Mary Harrison could not believe she had just yelled at a complete stranger. She’d never been that rude in her entire life. But then, she’d never been in a big city either. Or in a bar. Or done tequila shots. Oh, the difference a day makes.

And what a day she’d had. She’d been in New York City only one day, and in that time, she’d lost the job she’d just gotten, which in turn caused her to lose the apartment she had lined up. When she was leaving the realtor’s office, some man had stolen her purse, and she’d had to spend nearly six hours in a police station with all sorts of frightening people, waiting to place a report with a very uninterested officer. If she was going to start doing tequila shots, this seemed like the time.

Today was supposed to be the beginning of her new, adventuresome and fun life. So far, it had been long on adventure, and very, very short on fun.

But she was determined to have a little fun tonight. It was Christmas Eve, for heavens sake. And, thankfully, she’d had the foresight to put traveler’s checks in her suitcase, so she wasn’t destitute—yet.

She looked at the one full and three empty shot glasses in front of her. Was she going to have to spend her precious money on four shots? Three of which she didn’t order.

She sighed. Ah, well. At least Joey had been nice—the nicest person she’d met so far in the Big Apple. She glanced at him, leaning over the pool table, lining up a shot. He was sort of cute, too. And he’d flirted with her—at least, she thought he’d flirted.

Her eyes darted briefly to the man sitting beside her. He wasn’t flirting with her. In fact, he’d done nothing but cast her cool looks since she entered the bar. And she would never describe him as cute. She’d be willing to bet that cute wasn’t even used to describe him as a child. No, he was stunningly, dauntingly beautiful. She couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone that—perfect.

He had long hair that just brushed his broad shoulders. She’d never been that crazy about long hair, but on this man, it looked amazing. Glossy and thick in shades of sable threaded with burnished gold.

In profile, she could see the cut of his jawline, the wide, sculpted shape of his lips and slight arrogant flare of his nose. But it had been his peculiar eyes like whiskey in flickering firelight that had taken her breath away. They were so beautiful, so intense—almost predatory.

He was gorgeous.

She cast him another furtive look. In his black turtleneck sweater and black trousers, he didn’t seem to fit in here any more than she did, although not for the same reasons. He looked too affluent for a place like this. Too cultured. But under all that beauty and urbaneness, she still sensed something dangerous about him—that feral quality that lurked in his strange eyes.

She snorted quietly. The stress of today must be addling her mind. She was sure the only thing this man would be dangerous to was the female heart. With those looks, he was the definition of a heartbreaker.

She regarded the full shot glass in front of her. Her throat still burned, but she was starting to feel a nice, soothing heat in her limbs. Who would think such a small amount of that stuff could make her feel so much more relaxed. And after the day she’d had, she needed to relax.

She reached for the salt shaker.

The third shot went down so smoothly, she grinned with pride. For a nondrinker, she was a pro.

She lined the glasses up in front of her and tried to decide what to do next. She didn’t want to go back to her hotel. But she didn’t exactly feel comfortable here.

Plus, she kept having this uncontrollable urge to look at the man beside her. She shifted on her stool, peeking at him quickly. Maybe she should apologize to him.

“Oh, baby”—Joey suddenly reappeared at her side, startling her—“you drank my shot.”

She looked at the empty glasses guiltily. “I did. I’m sorry.”

“Well, I guess we just have to order another round.”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” a deep, husky voice said from beside her.

She blinked up at the beautiful stranger. He leaned toward her, those peculiar eyes burning into hers.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, buddy,” Joey said, irritated. Then his voice became soft, cajoling, as he asked her, “You aren’t going to let this jerk ruin our fun, are you, baby?”

Jane tore her gaze from the beautiful stranger to look at Joey. “No,” she said, although she knew her response sounded more than a little unsure.

Suddenly loud music began to play, and Jane noticed a blond woman adding money to a jukebox in the corner. Between the two men looming over her, the sudden thumping beat of the music and the alcohol coursing through her, her head began to spin.

“Can I get two tequilas down here,” Joey called to the bartender.

Jane stood, her legs unstable. The beautiful stranger caught her arm and steadied her. His hand was strong and felt good, even through her blazer. Her head swam.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded, taking a deep breath. “I think I just need a little fresh air.”

He started to stand, when Joey caught her other arm. “Baby, let me take you outside.”

Jane looked at the beautiful stranger. His hand still held her arm, his strength clear even in the gentle hold. His eyes blazed with something she couldn’t quite read, but she did know that she needed to get away from his touch. It was doing crazy things to her insides.

She tugged her arm free from him and allowed Joey to lead her to the door.

Right before she stepped outside, she glanced over her shoulder. The beautiful stranger watched her with those predatory eyes.