Fallen Angels 01 - Covet (23 page)

“I'm so sorry.”

“You're very kind, but that was a long time ago.” After a moment, she murmured, “You look exhausted.”

“Just need a little more coffee before we go.” Hell, on that theory, he'd keep drinking the stuff until his kidneys floated if it meant they had more time together.

The thing was, as she stared across at him, her warm concern made her...precious. Utterly precious and therefore susceptible to loss.

“Are you safe on the job?” he blurted. “And I'm not talking about from violence.” During the long pause that followed, he shook his head, feeling like both his loafers had just served as pancake chasers.

“I'm sorry, it's none of my business—”

“Do I practice safe sex, you mean?”

“Yeah, and I'm not asking because I want to be with you.” As she jerked back again, he cursed himself. “No, I mean, I want to know because I hope you're taking care of yourself.”

“Why would that matter to you?” He stared into her eyes. “It just does.”

She turned away and looked out over the river. “I'm safe. Always.

Which makes me very different from loads of so-called 'honorable'

women who sleep around without using anything. And you can stop searching my face like you're trying to solve some deep mystery.

Anytime. Now would be good.”

He resigned himself to staring down into his mug. “How much do you cost?”

“I thought you said you didn't want to be with me like that.”

“How much?”

“What, because you want to pull a
Pretty Woman
and buy me out of my horrible life for a week?” She laughed in a short, hard burst. “The only thing I have in common with Julia Roberts in that movie is that I get to pick who I'm with. As for how much, that's none of your business.”

He still wanted to know. Because, hell, maybe he hoped that if she was very expensive the quality of men would be better—although if he was honest with himself, that was a crock of shit. He
did
want to pull a Richard Gere, except he didn't want to buy a week. Years was more like it.

Even though that was never going to happen.

As the waitress trolled by with the pot of coffee and both her ears open, Marie-Terese said, “The check would be great now.”

The waitress put the pot on the table and fished around in her apron for her pad. Ripping free a page, she put the thing facedown. “Take care, you two.”

As she went off, he reached across and touched Marie-Terese's arm.

“I don't want this to end on a bad note. Thanks for keeping me out of it with the police, but I want you to come clean about me if you get any heat, okay?”

She didn't pull away, just looked down at where they were linked.

“I'm sorry, too. I'm not great company. At least...not for the civilized.”

There was pain in her voice—just a sliver of it, but he heard the note as clearly as a bell struck on a still night.

“Marie-Terese...” There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it was his right...and none of it would be received well, “...is such a lovely name.”

“You think?” When he nodded, she said something under her breath that he couldn't quite catch but that sounded a lot like,
That's why I
picked it.

She broke their contact by taking the check and holding it as she opened her purse. “I'm glad you liked the pancakes.”

“What are you doing? Here, let me get that—”

“When was the last time someone bought you breakfast?” When she glanced up, she smiled a little. “Or anything, for that matter?”

Vin frowned and considered the question as she fanned out a ten and a fiver. Funny...he couldn't remember Devina ever paying for anything.

Granted, he was always front and center with the cash, but still.

“I usually pay,” he said.

“Not a surprise.” She started scooting out of the booth. “And I don't mean that in a bad way.”

“Don't you need change?” he said, thinking he'd do anything to keep her with him a little longer.

“I leave big tips. I know how bad it can be, working in a service industry.”

As he followed her out of the diner, he put his hand into his pocket to get his keys and felt something small and out of place. With a frown, he realized it was the gold earring he'd taken from Jim's.

“Hey, you know what? I think I have something of yours,” he said as they closed in on her car.

She unlocked her door. “You do?”

“I think this belongs to you?” He held out the hoop.

“My earring! Where did you find it?”

“My buddy Jim picked it up in the parking lot outside the club.”

“Oh, thank you.” She pushed her hair out of the way and put it on. “I didn't want to lose these. They're not worth much, but I like them.”

“So...thanks for the pancakes.”

“You're welcome.” She paused before she got behind the wheel. “You know, you should take a day off. You look really tired.”

“Probably just the bruises on my face.”

“No, it's the ones behind your eyes that make you seem worn down.”

As she slid in and started the car, Vin caught a flash from over on the left and he looked across the river—

The instant the sun hit his retinas, his body seized up and tingled all over.

There was no gradual, fogging possession this time. The hateful trance claimed him between one second and the next, as if what had happened the night before had been just a warm-up and this was the real deal.

Sagging against Marie-Terese's hood, he went for his coat, opening it so he got some air— When the vision struck him, it was more sound than image and it replayed over and over: A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body dropping on a thunderous bounce.

A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body dropping on a thunderous bounce...

As his knees buckled and he sank down onto the asphalt, he struggled to stay conscious, holding on mentally to anything he could—which turned out to be the memory of when he'd had his first attack. He’d been eleven and the trigger had been a watch, a ladies' watch that he'd seen in the window of a jeweler's downtown. He'd been on a field trip with his classmates to the Caldwell Art Museum, and as he'd passed by the store, he'd looked at the display.

The watch had been a silver one, and when the sunlight had hit it, his eye had focused on the flash and he'd stopped in his tracks. Blood on the watch. There had been bright red blood on the watch.

Just as he'd struggled to understand what he was seeing and why he suddenly felt so strange, a female hand had reached into the display and picked the thing up. Behind her, there had been a man standing with happy expectation in his face, a customer....

Except the guy couldn't buy the watch—whoever wore it next was going to die.

With the kind of strength that came only with full-bodied panic, Vin had broken the hold of the trance and bolted into the store. He hadn't been fast enough, though. One of the parent chaperones had raced in and caught him before he'd been able to say anything, and when he'd fought to get to the man and the watch, he'd been dragged out by the collar and condemned to wait in the bus while the others continued on to the museum.

Nothing came of the vision.

At least, not right away. Seven days later, though, Vin had been in school and seen one of the teachers in the cafeteria with what appeared to be the watch on her wrist. She'd been showing it off to her colleagues, talking about a birthday dinner she'd had the night before with her husband.

In that instant, a flash of sunlight on the playground slide had come through the window and captured Vin's eye...and then he'd seen the blood on the timepiece again, as well as much, much more.

Vin had collapsed on the linoleum of the cafeteria, and as the teacher had rushed over and leaned down to help, he saw with great clarity the car crash she was going to be in: Her head was hitting the steering wheel, her delicate face splitting open on impact.

Gripping the front of her dress, he'd tried to tell her to wear a seat belt.

Get her husband to pick her up. Take another route. Take a bus. A bicycle. Walk home. But as his mouth had moved, nothing but random syllables had come out as far as he knew—although the horror dawning on the faces of the other teachers and the students suggested they were understanding what he was saying.

In the aftermath, he'd been sent to the nurse's office, and when his parents had been called, they'd been told he needed to go see a child psychiatrist.

And the teacher...the lovely young teacher with the thoughtful husband had died that afternoon on the way home from school with her new watch on her wrist.

Car accident. And she hadn't been wearing her seat belt.

When Vin had heard the next morning in his classrom, he'd burst into tears. Of course, a lot of kids had started crying too, but it was different for him. Unlike the rest of them, he'd been in a position to do something to prevent the outcome.

Everything had changed after that. Word had gotten out that he'd predicted the death—which made the teachers nervous around him and his peers either avoid him or ridicule him as spooky. His father had started having to beat him to get him to go to school.

Abruptly, Vin lost his train of thought, the past getting submerged by the seizure's command of his mind and body, his consciousness ebbing more than it was flowing....

A gunshot. Ringing out and echoing. Someone falling. A body
dropping on a thunderous bounce...

Just before he passed out, the vision crystallized in his mind's eye, no longer just sounds but bona fide images...a sand castle being formed by the wind instead of worn away by it: He saw Marie-Terese with her hands up as if she were trying to protect herself, her eyes wild with terror, her mouth opening in a scream.

And then he heard the shot going off.

About an hour after Adrian and Eddie showed up and made their hands available, Jim slung his leg over the old bike and turned the key. Planting the sole of his work boot on the strike pedal and slamming his weight down, he didn't have any real faith the thing was going to— That trademark Harley growl sprang to life immediately.

As he cranked the throttle, the engine vibrated between his legs and he had to shout over the din. “Christ, Ad, you did it.”

Adrian grinned as he wiped his greasy palms on a red chamois cloth.

“No problem. Let's take her for a spin and check the brakes.”

Jim rolled the bike out of the garage and into the sunlight. “Let me get my helmet.”

“Helmet?” Adrian mounted his hog. “Never thought you were an Eagle Scout.”

Jim came back out with his black-and-hard. “Avoiding head injury is not a pussy move.”

“But you gotta think about the wind in your hair, my man.”

“Or the electrical plugs that'll keep you alive afterward.”

“I got the dog,” Eddie said, as he got on his own and held out his hands. The instant the opportunity presented itself, the little guy took a flying leap and parked it on the leather wrap over Eddie's tank.

Jim frowned, thinking he wasn't loving that. “What if you get into an accident?”

“I won't.” As if the laws of physics didn't apply to him.

Jim was about to kibosh the deal when he saw how psyched Dog was to be on board, his claws curled into the cowhide like bliss was making his toes tingle, his tail going as fast as his butt would allow.

Plus, as the big man took the handlebars, his arms bracketed the animal.

“Just be careful with my damn dog. That animal gets hurt and you and I are having words.”

Well, wasn't he turning into a good owner.

Strapping on his helmet, he drew on his leather jacket and straddled his bike. As he cranked the gas, his ride gave out a nasty, low cursing sound, and the power of all those horses rumbled up through his body.

Man, however much of a pain in the ass Adrian could be, he knew what he was doing with engines. Which might finally explain why Eddie could handle living with him.

On an unspoken we're-out-of-here, all three of them took off into the sunshine, Adrian in the lead, and Eddie in the rear with Dog.

Turned out, Jim's bike was straight-up magic, a beast with no manners at all, and as they went through farm country, he started to get a feel for the thing.

And whatever, you didn't need wind in your hair to be free.

Adrian ended up taking them down by the Hudson, heading toward town, and when they started to hit the traffic lights by the city's riverside parks, Jim took to praying for reds—just because accelerating was so frickin' satisfying.

As they pulled up to the intersection of Twelfth and River streets, he shouted up to Adrain, “I need gas.”

“There's an Exxon up here, right?”

“Yeah, two blocks.”

When the light changed, they roared off, the sounds of their engines exploding into the air and being amplified as they went beneath the overpasses of the highway. At the gas station, they pulled up to the pumps and Jim hit the high-test.

“How're the brakes?” Adrian asked as he eyed a blonde getting out of a beater. The woman headed into the quickie mart with a hip swivel and a half, the fringe of her long hair tickling the tattoo at the small of her back.

Jim had to laugh. The mouthy bastard was instantly distracted and clearly considering the merits of trailing her inside and asking her if she wanted to play with his screwdriver—which, given the way she kept looking over her shoulder at him, was going to be one big, fat
yes.

“Why do I get the feeling mine are better than yours,” Jim murmured as he pulled the nozzle out of his tank.

“You mean brake-wise?” Adrian's head swiveled around. “You think?

'Cuz I do believe you were the one getting laid Thursday night, not me.”

“And to think I'd decided your company was worth your grease skills.” Jim crammed the nozzle back into its place on the pump.

“Musta been out of my damn mind.”

He remounted and put his helmet back on. “So you want to head back—”

“I'm sorry.”

Jim stopped in the process of buckling up the strap under his chin.

Adrian was standing in front of him, the guy's face grim, his eyes focused on the sky above the gas station. He was dead serious. Jim frowned. “What are you sorry about what?”