Authors: Kathy Love
Devilishly Sexy (3 page)
Or at least he hoped he could. Maybe friggin’ elevators had as many rights as demons did these days.
When they reached the basement level, Michael didn’t even wait for the doors to fully open before squeezing his broad shoulders through the parting space and making a beeline through the large workroom that bustled with DIA agents posing as mailroom staff.
A slight rush of satisfaction cooled Michael’s annoyance just a little as the workers/agents darted out of the way when he stormed through, parting like frightened fish at the approach of a shark.
Except they probably didn’t hurry out of his way because they were intimidated by a member of The Brethren, but simply because he was a large, pissed-off man. That realization stole a little of his pleasure.
“Michael,” he heard Gabriel call from behind him, but Michael didn’t slow his pace. That made him feel a little better again.
Damn, it was the small rebellions now.
He kept going, even as Gabriel’s voice grew more emphatic.
Michael didn’t want to hear any more. He wasn’t taking a tour of the mailroom. He wasn’t going to become one of the ineffectual automatons the other Brethren had become. He just needed out of this place. Out of these clothes. Away from this new world he did not understand.
Chapter Three
M
ichael shoved the key into the lock of his tiny studio apartment. As he stepped into the ratty little space, melancholy mingled with the frustration still smoldering in his chest. He stopped and leaned back against the closed door, struggling to take a calming breath. To let go of these unwanted feelings.
ichael shoved the key into the lock of his tiny studio apartment. As he stepped into the ratty little space, melancholy mingled with the frustration still smoldering in his chest. He stopped and leaned back against the closed door, struggling to take a calming breath. To let go of these unwanted feelings.
This was his life now. A tiny, dingy apartment in a questionable part of New York City. Alone. Completely confused by this life he suddenly found himself dropped into. So very different from the life that had been taken from him.
He’d been at the top of his slaying game. The leader of The Brethren. He’d had a home in an upscale part of Manhattan. He’d dated and partied when he wasn’t working. He’d had a happy, and fulfilling life. He’d known his place in the world. Things had been copasetic.
And with one misstep, one moment of letting down his guard, believing for just a moment he was powerful enough to combat anything, he’d lost it all. He’d lost thirty-three years. But despite that one misstep, the only thing he felt he understood and still had any confidence in was his job as a slayer.
And now even that was gone.
He wandered into the room, setting down the long leather bag that contained his sword. He wanted to simply toss the weapon down. Apparently it was useless to him. But years, decades, centuries of respect for the blessed weapon wouldn’t allow him to treat it so cavalierly. Even though it would appear his sword was as obsolete as the one who wielded it.
He headed over to his wardrobe, struggling out of Gabriel’s shirt as he went. He flung it on the worn plaid chair in the corner. The furniture had come with the apartment, the tattered, shabby pieces so old, they’d probably had their heyday in the seventies. Just like him.
Michael peeled off the equally snug sweatpants, then headed to the bathroom, a tiny space with a sink, a toilet, and a rust-stained shower stall. The minuscule room didn’t even have a proper door, just an accordion-style, vinyl, sliding one, which he never bothered to close anyway, because the space would be totally claustrophobic if he did.
He turned on the shower, the hot water knob squeaking in protest, the pipes joining in with several loud bangs.
He waited for a moment for the water to warm, then shed the last remnants of his clothes and stepped into the spray.
He sighed, not even caring that the water was lukewarm at best. He stood there, limbs slack, eyes closed, but his mind didn’t relax like the rest of his body.
The mailroom. He’d been back with DIA long enough to know that working in the mailroom meant he was little more than a spy, an information gatherer. Watching what the demons were doing, but not taking any active part in stopping their invasion. But then again, wasn’t that all of the DIA now.
He reached for the shampoo. The bottle was labeled Herbal Essence—a brand he remembered from the seventies. But this shampoo was “revitalizing,” in a purple bottle. Revitalizing. Whatever the hell that meant.
Back in the seventies this shampoo had been green and one kind for all hair types—and it smelled like its name. Herbal. This smelled like fruit—and was purple now too. What was herbal about that?
Damn, even shampoo had been so much simpler in 1979.
He finished washing his hair and body, then stepped out of the shower, the plumbing complaining just as much about being turned off.
He dried off with one of the cheap towels he’d picked up for his apartment, and the rough cloth actually felt good against his skin. Somehow reaching through the numbness that had surrounded him since leaving Eugene’s office.
The mailroom. If he wanted to continue with the DIA, that was where he had to go.
He quickly threw on some clothes, needing some fresh air.
Once out on the street, he looked both ways. The streets were bustling, cars honking, traffic stop-and-go, people rushing wherever they were going. All of that was the same as his last memories of this place. But the passersby looked different somehow. The cars not any makes he knew. People talked on cell phones, or typed away on them as they walked.
But it wasn’t called typing. It was called ... texting.
It was strange how the city could be both very familiar and very foreign at the same time. He glanced both ways again, then decided it didn’t really matter which way he went. He didn’t have any destination in mind anyway.
He roamed the streets for a long time, seeing some things he vaguely recognized, plenty he didn’t. And all the while, his mind swirled with thoughts of the world he’d left behind. And how the hell he was supposed to find a place in this one.
He wandered, for how long he wasn’t sure, until he spotted a little bar on the corner. Stubby’s.
Stubby’s. He knew this place. The bar still existed, and it looked exactly the same as he remembered. The worn brick building, the tacky neon sign, even the chipped green paint on the door—everything was the same. A wave of relief washed over him. Finally something that hadn’t changed in the time he was—indisposed.
He jogged across the street, only getting honked at once for his jaywalking, and he didn’t even understand the insult that followed. What was a “mofo” anyway?
He didn’t contemplate that very long. His only intent was getting back to a place he knew and understood.
He pushed open the door of the bar, the weight and resistance as well known to him as if he’d just pushed it open the day before. He stepped inside the narrow, alley-like bar and was assailed by the smell of stale smoke and beer. All that was familiar too.
He was thrilled to see that even his favorite seat at the end of the bar was empty. He strode directly toward it, settling onto the stool with a relieved sigh. The stools looked exactly the same.
God, this felt so good. So wonderfully familiar.
“What can I get you?”
Michael stopped looking around the bar, turning to grin at the bartender. His smile slipped slightly when he saw the young man waiting to take his order. His hair was cut in a shaggy, androgynous style, but that was where any semblance of seventies style ended. This kid was covered in metal studs. Two in his eyebrow. One through the septum of his nose. Another in the indentation below his bottom lip. His earlobes were stretched into wide holes held open by rims of more metal. Then there were the endless colorful tattoos covering both of his bare arms like sleeves.
This certainly wasn’t the bartender Michael remembered, a cool cat named Winston with a great Afro and the craziest taste in silky, floral shirts. But Michael supposed he couldn’t expect every detail to be the same. Plus, Winston had always said he was going to buy his own bar eventually. Maybe that’s what he did.
Michael came out of his reminiscing to see that the new, young bartender was eyeing him as skeptically as he’d just examined the young man.
“Want a drink?”
“Um, yeah, I’ll take a Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
The kid frowned. “Sorry, we don’t carry that.”
“Since when?” PBR was always a favorite at all bars.
“I have no idea. We haven’t had it since I’ve been here.”
Michael wasn’t sure how long that was, but he was willing to bet it wasn’t that long, by the looks of him. Even filled with distracting metal, the kid didn’t appear much over twenty.
“I’ll take a Harvey Wallbanger then.”
The kid made another confused face, but nodded and headed back down the bar.
Michael watched him for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the bar. Okay, so they didn’t have Pabst, but they still had the same jukebox, and the same beer and liquor signs on the walls. He sighed, again feeling at home, normal, for the first time since returning to this world.
Man, how many hours had he spent chilling in this place? All The Brethren had come here back then. They’d played pool in the back room. They’d sat at the bar and mellowed out. They’d all loved this place.
Damn, he hoped none of them would show up tonight. Then he looked around again. But there was one person he’d love to see here again.
Allie.
Allie Lewis. She’d waitressed here and knew all the guys well, but only Michael had been lucky enough to date the spunky young barmaid. She’d been a lot of fun, both in bed and out, and Michael had truly had fond feelings for her. He hadn’t been willing to settle down with her. Marriage was much different for members of The Brethren than for average humans. Marriage for his kind was permanent, forever. When the proposal was made and accepted, the couple was bonded for eternity. A slayer simply knew when he’d met his soul mate.
While he’d cared for Allie, he’d known she wasn’t his soul mate, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to see her now. Hell, he’d love the comfort and familiarity of her smile and laughter and warm body tonight. That would truly be a godsend at this moment.
As if his longing conjured her, he heard an unforgotten sound. Allie’s airy laughter.
Michael scanned the bar, trying to see Allie’s honey-blond locks, her wide smile and blue eyes. The establishment wasn’t crowded, so it didn’t take him long to spot the woman, whose laugh he recognized instantly.
He didn’t recognize the woman, however. That familiar laughter came from the rouged lips of a woman who had to be in her late fifties, if she was a day. She appeared to have long blond hair, but it wasn’t like golden honey, but rather a washed-out color as if she was desperately trying to hold on to her blondness, but the gray was winning. This woman had tired, lined skin, and he suspected she tanned too much in that endless search for a youthful glow. Unfortunately now it had had the reverse effect.
She leaned over the bar to give the young bartender a peck on the cheek. The bartender winced as if he’d rather avoid the gesture of affection altogether, and Michael wondered if this woman was a regular who always demanded things like kisses on her crepey cheeks.
They spoke a moment longer, and then the bartender gestured in Michael’s direction with his head. He lifted what must be Michael’s drink in the air. Michael looked away, not wanting to be caught staring.
“Here you go,” the tattooed bartender said, setting the orange drink in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching into his pocket to hand the guy a five.
“That’s nine-fifty.”
Michael frowned. Damn, now that was inflation. A Harvey Wallbanger would have cost him $2.50 thirty-three years ago. Was everything destined to be drastically different?
He reached into his pocket for another five.
The bartender nodded his thanks. Michael watched him head back down the bar to talk to another patron who looked pretty much the same as he did. Tattooed, pierced, angst-ridden.
Michael took an experimental sip of his drink, pleased that at least the kid made a decent Harvey Wallbanger. Not nine dollars and fifty cents worth of decent, but it was better than he’d expected. As he took another, longer swallow, he noticed the woman at the end of the bar was now staring at him.
He finished his sip, then lowered his glass, not looking away. Under her fake tan, the woman seemed to blanch, her skin taking on an even stranger color in the dim light.
Only then, as she stared at him wide-eyed, did Michael realize he was staring into Allie Lewis’s sky-blue eyes. He watched as she pushed away from the place where she leaned on the bar, and headed in his direction, their eyes never breaking contact.
Finally when she was right in front of him, her mesmerized expression, the very same expression he was sure he wore, shifted. Her blue eyes roamed his face, taking in the sight of him as if he was some long-lost love. Which, in a way, he supposed he was.
“Michael?” she finally said tentatively as if she had to be losing her mind. Her face was so different, but he’d have recognized her voice anywhere.
He managed to shake his head, even though he was still just as stunned that he was looking at her. Allie.
“Sorry, no.”
A frown creased her brow, making her look older. Sadly older.
“I’m sorry. You look like a man I knew,” she paused, thinking. “God, it has to be thirty years ago now.”
Thirty-three, actually.
She laughed then, her pretty laugh still the same as that of the twenty-something woman he’d once known. Her blue eyes twinkled then too, also just the same as all those years ago.
“But of course, you couldn’t be him.”
“No,” Michael said, knowing there was no way to tell her the truth.
She stared at him for a moment longer, then shook her head, still looking as if she’d seen a ghost. “Sorry to interrupt your drink.”
She started to turn, and before he thought better of it, he reached out and touched her arm to stop her.
“Did you think I was Michael Archer?”
She spun back to him, her eyes wide again, shining like perfectly cut blue topazes. For a moment, she appeared almost young again. But the instant was fleeting, and she again looked more like a woman he didn’t know.
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