Cody (5 page)

C
ODY PULLED MIRANDA
out from under the air bag, opened the rear door and settled her on the soft leather. Other than the oozing prick-points at her neck, a cut on her forehead and some swelling, she seemed unharmed.

He turned to deal with the two security guards who’d heard the crash and barreled through the back door of the club.

“What the hell’s going on?” The first guy’s name was Joe and he was an Austin firefighter. He had a wife, two ex-wives and six kids, and so he moonlighted on the weekends as a bouncer. He had his cell in hand and was about to call in the accident when Cody turned his full attention on the man.

“Nothing,” he said. The man looked ready to call the police anyway, but then his eyes glazed over and he nodded.

Cody went through the same spiel with bouncer number two.

Luckily, they were in the rear parking lot, which didn’t have as much traffic as the one just across the street. A paid lot that offered security. The back lot was strictly for overflow and employees, so Cody didn’t
have to deal with anyone else coming out during the next few moments as he checked for damage to the car.

Other than a smashed right fender, everything else looked okay. He stuffed the air bag back into place, slid behind the wheel and flipped open the glove box. He retrieved her purse and found her wallet.

A glance at her driver’s license and his stomach knotted.

Skull Creek.

The truth echoed in his head, along with a rush of dread because he’d just had the most incredible sex of his afterlife and now the plan was to gain as much distance as possible from the woman who’d given it to him.

He had a vampire to kill and a score to settle. He needed his concentration. His focus.

Shit.

Could his night get any worse?

A great big
Hell, yes!
smacked him upside the head when he pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store a short distance from the club and slid into the backseat to check on Miranda.

The place had long since closed and everything was dark, but he could see her any way. Her smooth skin and full lips. The soft fan of her lashes on her cheeks. The swelling on her forehead was getting worse and Cody had the gut feeling that she had a concussion.

Shit.

He couldn’t very well take her to a hospital and risk her gaining consciousness and blowing his cover to an entire E.R. full of doctors and nurses before he’d had a chance to mesmerize her and zap her memory. Not that
they’d believe her, but the incredible story would surely stir some gossip and attention.

With Benny James on his heels, he couldn’t afford either.

He had no choice but to help her himself.

Hesitation rushed through him. Ridiculous, of course. It wasn’t like he was going to turn her into a vampire. She would have to be on her deathbed for that. Only if she drank some of his blood while dying would she become a vampire.

She was merely wounded, which meant his blood wouldn’t turn her. It would only heal her, and strengthen the bond that already existed between them because of the sex.

He’d drank in her orgasm—her essence—which meant he could now feel her. If she drank his life-blood—his essence—she would be able to feel him, as well. His lust. His anger. His sorrow. His secrets. How strong those feelings would be, he wasn’t sure. He’d never shared his blood with a human. He only knew the bond would become a two-way street.

Don’t do it.

That’s what reason told him, but his damned conscience whispered otherwise. He’d left her in that alley alone when he knew good and goddamn well that there was another vampire in the vicinity. Sure, he’d thought the young gun had taken off, but he should have sensed him still close by.

He would have if he hadn’t been so freaked out by his own climax, and so damned desperate to get away.

To cut and run. Like always.

He focused on the hunger in his gut, letting it rise up and take control. His fangs sharpened and lengthened. Biting at his own wrist, he drew a steady drip-drop of blood. He held the wound to her lips and let the precious life trickle into her mouth.

He knew the moment her survival instincts kicked in. While her eyes didn’t open, she arched up off the seat and grasped at his arm. Holding his wrist close, she lapped at his skin.

At the first feel of her tongue flicking against him, his groin tightened and his muscles went tense. She suckled, the drawing sensation sending a bolt of desire straight to his already aroused cock. He braced himself against the seat with his free hand and fought the urge to explode right there in his pants.

The agony went on several more seconds until he finally pulled away.

Her eyes opened then and she stared up at him. Her forehead wrinkled for a split second, but then he touched her. His fingertips trailed over her smooth skin, down the side of her face, her cheek and again he felt a surge of protectiveness.

Crazy. He wasn’t doing this for her. This was about watching his own ass and covering his tracks. No police. No hospital.

He leaned down and lapped at the two tiny prick points at her neck. The taste hit him like a shot of whiskey, curling through him, stirring a wave of heat that warmed his insides and made him want more. His fangs sharpened and vibrated, but he resisted the draw of her sweet life. Instead, he laved the nicks with his
tongue and forced himself away. His entire body trembled with the effort.

“Close your eyes and relax,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’ll be home soon.”

She didn’t want to, but he stared so hard into her gaze and impressed his will on her that she had no choice.

Stare into her eyes and will her to forget,
a voice reminded him.
Erase her memory of you.
But damned if her eyelids didn’t close before he had the chance.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Deep down, he knew the truth was that she’d come looking for a memory and he couldn’t bring himself to rob her of it. It wasn’t as if he could control exactly what she remembered. How far back. What specific events and episodes. Rather, he could make her forget him and all that that involved.

The sex.

The confrontation with the young vampire.

The accident.

The sharing of his blood.

The last thought stopped him cold. Since she’d tasted him, he might not be able to influence her thoughts and erase her memory. He didn’t know.

Not that it mattered either way.

He’d erased the evidence and he had no doubt that she would convince herself that she hadn’t really seen what she’d thought she’d seen. Reason and logic would win out over the truth. They always did.

He licked at his bleeding wrist before untucking his shirt and ripping off a strip from the bottom. He wrapped the cloth around the self-inflicted wound and
tied a tight knot. The gash hurt like a sonofabitch and it looked even worse, but he knew the pain wouldn’t last for long. A day of sleep and all traces of the injury would be completely gone.

For her, as well.

He slid off his shirt and draped it over her. Her heartbeat echoed in his head and his hands lingered on her smooth, warm cheek.

A quick second and he forced himself away.

And then he climbed behind the wheel, hit the interstate and headed for Skull Creek.

A
NIGHTMARE
.

That’s what Miranda decided when she opened her eyes. She was stretched out in the backseat of her car parked in front of the two-story brick colonial she’d bought two years ago. Flower beds full of Texas sage and lantana lined the walkway to the front door and a well-tended ivy covered trellis decorated the right front of the house.

It was an older house and somewhat small, but it was well-kept and, more importantly, it was all hers. She’d scrimped and saved for years, living in a one-room efficiency over the local bakery and stashing every extra penny from her job at the senior center until she’d finally had enough for a down payment. Her sisters hadn’t thought she’d be able to do it, but she had. Just as she’d put herself through college. And graduated at the top of her class.

The house, however, was her biggest accomplishment. Her pride and joy.

She’d refinished the kitchen cabinets and retiled the bathroom floor and she was now in the process of repainting her bedroom a creamy yellow with pale pink trim.

A far cry from the moldy, peeling papered walls of
the trailer where she’d grown up—where her sisters still lived—which was the point entirely. She’d wanted out of that life, and she’d made it.

Almost.

Relief threaded through her as she blinked against the blinding morning sunlight. A nightmare, all right, and now she was home. Safe.

She glanced at her hands just to be sure.

Sure enough, there wasn’t a trace of blood anywhere. None on her clothes. Or the seat. She sat up and glanced in the rearview mirror. Other than a major case of bedhead, she looked the way she always did. No bleeding cuts or bruises. Nothing but the smooth, slightly pale skin of her forehead.

She was
never
drinking again. Or having hot, wild sex with a vampire.

Her thighs trembled and her thoughts careened to a halt.

Wait a second.

A vampire?

Hardly. Vampires didn’t exist. Only in the minds of cable TV producers, ambitious horror writers and women hung up on the ultimate alpha male fantasy.

Her mother had liked vampires almost as much as she’d liked cowboys. She’d lusted over Brad Pitt in
Interview with the Vampire
until she’d practically worn out the DVD.

They were the stuff of fantasies, all right. As in fake. Fictitious.
Un
real.

She remembered Cody’s hot mouth on her nipple and the nub tightened. Her thighs still tingled from the rough feel of his hands.

Real.

The sex, that is. But then she’d crawled into the backseat of her car and passed out, and dreamt up all the rest.

So how the hell had she gotten home?

A good Samaritan, obviously. She’d been in no condition to drive, which meant some do-gooder had happened along and given her a lift. That, or maybe one of the bouncers had played chauffeur. Or maybe a tow truck had hauled her home. Or…something. Anything. Because no way had last night actually happened.

Cody the cowboy
vampire
had been just a figment of her imagination. A margarita-induced hallucination. And now it was over.

She gathered her resolve and climbed from the car. For having tied one on—they must have let the worm through when they poured the tequila for her margarita—she actually felt pretty good. No lingering headache or nausea. Just an ache between her thighs that reminded her of the most glorious orgasm of her entire life.

She’d really and truly done it.

Finally.

She did her damnedest to resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Grabbing her purse from the front seat, she walked around the car to pick up her newspaper. She was just straightening when she spotted the twisted front right fender. A memory rushed at her and she felt the wheel beneath her fingers, the jolt as the car hit the light pole, the explosion of pain in her skull.

Her gaze skittered a few feet and snagged on the western shirt draped over her mailbox. Her heart started
to pound and her mind rushed back. She felt the soft cotton slithering over her arms, smelled the mesmerizing scent of leather and wildness and raw power.

No way.

No. Friggin’.
Way.

He wasn’t a vampire. He couldn’t be. That much she knew. As for driving her home…Maybe he
had
been the one to drive her here.

Maybe he was still here.

Yeah, right.

If—and we’re talking a big
if
considering there were a dozen other possibilities—he
had
driven her home, he was nowhere in sight now. A quick glance inside the car confirmed what she already knew—no note. No goodbye. Nothing.

She snatched up the shirt, walked toward her front door and tried to ignore a crazy rush of disappointment.

She’d hooked up with him precisely because he wasn’t the type of man who stuck around for an awkward morning after.

One wild night, she reminded herself.

And now it was back to her calm, tame life.

“I
AIN’T NEVER SEEN
a shopping cart do this much damage.” Darrell Call ran one grease-stained hand over the twisted metal.

He was the owner and operator of Darrell’s Pit Stop, probably the last full service gas station in the free world. While he wasn’t actually open on Sundays, she’d caught him in his garage doing an oil change on old man Witherspoon’s 1970 Bonneville.

“Are you sure that’s all you hit?” he finally asked after another careful inspection.

Miranda shrugged. “It might have been two of them stuck together.” She’d gone to high school with Darrell. He’d been one of the only boys who hadn’t hit on her—he’d only had eyes for Mabel Sinclair. They’d married right after high school and had three kids—Little Darrel, May and Ranger—named after Darrell’s favorite baseball team.

“My cousin rammed a shopping cart once.” Darrell let loose a stream of tobacco juice and arched an eyebrow at her. “All he got was a few little scratches.”

“They’re making them sturdier these days.”

“They painting ’em yellow, too?” He eyeballed a small section that had flecks of dried paint embedded in the metal.

“I might have grazed one of those parking posts after I hit the shopping cart. Can you fix it?” she added before he could ask another question.

He shrugged. “I can try banging her out, but if that don’t work I’ll have to order a new fender.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“A week or two. Maybe more. Depends on if we have to order parts.”

Dread welled inside her. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain the car to anyone.

She didn’t want to lie.

She never lied. Her mother had been a master at it. She’d explained away her daughters to the men she’d brought home, calling them everything from her nieces to her younger sisters.

“I really need this car back as soon as possible.”

Darrell adjusted his ball cap and shook his head. “You cain’t hurry skilled craftsmanship.”

“I’ll pay extra.”

“You and the half dozen car owners in front of you. I’m the only mechanic in town. I’ve got me one of them monopolies going on.”

“Free movie tickets?”

“I already got a whole mess of tickets from Myron Haskell over at the theater. I helped him restore his ’69 GTO.”

“We’ve got pay-per-view at the senior center.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “I’ll spring for wrestling tomorrow night.”

“Got my own satellite dish. Fixed Diane Holloway’s Plymouth last year and she gave it to me.”

Diane owned the mercantile that sold everything from big screens to zit cream.

“I’ll mow your lawn.”

“That’s Mabel’s area. She says it helps to keep her ass from spreading on account of she sits all day. She’s on a health kick. Can you believe she made me get rid of the snack machines in the office? I tried to buy a chili dog over at the diner last week and Sue Jean refused to sell it to me. Said Mabel told her to cut me off or else. I cain’t even buy a Snickers bar at the Quick Pick.”

An idea struck and Miranda contemplated Mabel’s wrath all of five seconds before she made up her mind. “I
could
bring you a dozen Krispy Kremes from the senior center.” Hey, desperate times called for desperate measures. “We get a fresh shipment every morning.”

He grinned. “Sugar
does
make me work faster.”

Miranda vowed to deliver donuts first thing the next morning and headed to the local nursery to pick up a bag of potting soil.

It was her usual Sunday morning trip.

She walked her normal route and stopped off at the bakery for her favorite bagel. She said hello to the busy-bodies drinking coffee in front of the diner the way she always did and they
harrumphed
and
why, I nevered
the way they always did. It was the same old, same old in Skull Creek.

Except that it didn’t feel like the same old.

It felt different this time.

She
felt different.

Her heart beat a little faster. Her body felt more alert. Her ears perked at the slightest sound and her fingertips tingled. Her nose seemed more sensitive, picking up the sweet smell of cotton candy even though she was a block away from the carnival being held in the church parking lot.

And her eyes…She noticed colors that she’d never noticed before. The different shades of red in the single rose that bloomed in a pot on her back patio. The iridescent aqua wings on the fly that buzzed around her kitchen.

She felt different, all right.

Alive.

Thanks to Cody.

She dismissed the absurd thought as she pulled on her gardening gloves and went to work on the flower beds in her backyard.

She and Greg had started the planting just last month.

He loved flowers and spent every second when he wasn’t running the dry cleaning business tending a greenhouse full of prizewinning daisies. Miranda herself had never been into gardening until he’d bought her a pair of gloves and put her to work.

Now she shared his routine even if she didn’t share his passion.

Wait a second.

Who said she didn’t share his passion? Sure, she wasn’t a fanatic about it, but she
liked
gardening.

Seeing a mound of dirt transform into a brilliant cluster of flowers filled her with a sense of pride. And hope. If she could change her surroundings, she could change her life.

She most certainly wasn’t letting herself get hung up on a one-night-stand with a virtual stranger. No matter how phenomenal the orgasm. Or how she kept reliving the memory of the two of them in that back alley. Or how she kept envisioning them getting hot and heavy in the front loader of a John Deere tractor. Or buck-naked on the fifty-yard line at the local stadium. Or sweaty and desperate in the back seat of her car—

Enough!

She wasn’t thinking about him. And she certainly wasn’t thinking about the
Sex Spots
List. Sure, she’d wondered in the past what it might be like to do it in the various locations—she was only human, after all—but she’d never pictured herself with any certain someone.

Until now.

Over,
she reminded herself. Her head knew that.

If only her hormones could grasp that all-important fact.