He's A Magic Man (The Children of Merlin) (13 page)

“Satisfied?”

“I guess I have to be.”
There was something wrong here
,
he just knew it
.

“Well, you can check on her once a day, credit cards only.”

“And location of her phone?” He felt like a child asking his mother’s permission.

“Okay.” She turned to go. “But that’s it.”

*****

Drew knew that when Dowser woke up, the symptoms would be back. Only now he wasn’t tied up. For some reason she had stopped worrying that he’d hurt her. Alice was in her corner. And she had a feeling that Alice was stronger than she was. Dowser too.

Depressing. She might as well start trying to see Dowser as a brotherly figure.

That would be tough. Pathetic. That’s what she was. She was so sure she could find the one man who could be the love of her life, and that love would bring out the magic powers in both of them. It sounded like lunacy. Even crazier, she had lied to her family and traipsed across a continent to track down a man who was not only a raging alcoholic, but one who could never love her. She must have imagined being able see the future.

Really
pathetic.

But now she was here. She couldn’t walk out on Dowser just because he wasn’t a party to her cockeyed plan. So she had to carry on with helping him beat the booze. He hadn’t wanted that at first, but apparently he did now, because of Alice. Was his love of Alice stronger than his love for liquor? Sooner or later his resolve would fail and then where were they? She didn’t want all his suffering to be for nothing. How to keep Dowser from just going into Sugarloaf and buying half gallons of rum? He had no transportation other than her car. But an alcoholic would take her car in a second if that was what stood between him and booze.

Not if she removed the distributor cap. Thank God she’d gotten an older Toyota. It must have a distributor cap. She grinned as she dashed out into the morning heat. She’d seen her brother Tris take the distributor cap off his classic Mustang to make sure Lanyon wouldn’t use it to practice for his driving test. How hard could it be?

*****

Dowser woke up, head throbbing, his veins on fire. Light stabbed him as he opened his eyes. It must be afternoon. He couldn’t help but groan.

“You awake?”

He grabbed the pillow and put it over his face. God, but she was cheerful. That should be a capital offense. “No,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. He was drenched in sweat. But he was better than yesterday. How long had it been since he’d had a drink? Days? Weeks?

“Yes you are,” she said.

This must be the third day. His stomach started to rebel. That feeling of inevitability came over him. Damn it. He wasn’t puking all over himself again. He pushed himself up and scrambled for the bathroom. He saw her in the kitchen out of the corner of his eye, but he had to focus on only one thing. He slammed the door and leaned over the toilet, since he couldn’t get down on his knees.

When he finally thought he was done, he slammed the lid and sat
down .
His hand was shaking as he ran it through his sweaty hair to get it out of his eyes. He was weak as a rusted-through bolt. A knock at the door was followed immediately by it opening.

“Don’t you wait for an answer?” he croaked. “I could’ve been peeing.”

“You weren’t,” she said, holding out a damp towel.

He grabbed it. It was cool. He ran it over his face and neck. That felt good. He wiped his chest. She was watching him. Fine. Let her watch. He just sat there, knowing he had to gather his strength or he’d collapse right in front of her.

“Let me help you up.”

He waved her away. “I’m fine.” His mouth felt like the local dump.

“Oh, yeah. You’re great. Don’t be stupid.” She flushed the toilet then leaned down and caught his arm and heaved. “It’s not like we haven’t been through this before.”

That was the bitch of it. They had. Three days of it. It had only been three days since he’d had a drink.
Alice, I hope you know what you’re doing.
The thought of Alice made him cringe. Failure. Loss. No reason left to care. He stumbled back to bed, the girl supporting one elbow.

“You look a little better,” she said as he eased into the bed he’d come to hate. She brought him some mouthwash and a bowl. She was always so damned sure of herself.

“What do you want from me?” he asked sullenly.

“Fresher breath.” She waggled the bottle of mouthwash. “It’ll make you feel better, too.”

He looked away. Childish, but he wanted to punish her. “I’m tired.”

“I know,” she said softly. “And you’re really sick of me. But you do look like you feel a little better.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. He glared at her, but he took the mouthwash.
Remember what Alice said. Be nice to her.

Whoever she was. He rinsed and spit into the bowl. Now his mouth felt like the local dump covered up with minty freshness. He squinted up at her. Damn, but his head ached. “So, what’s your name?” It was sort of embarrassing that he’d never asked.

“Drew.” She took the bowl into the kitchen. “Drew Tremaine.”

He looked her over. She was a looker, if you liked them slim and cultured. Her black hair was shiny and long, but in the heat she’d wound it up on her head, leaving her graceful neck bare. Her cheek was bruised, but it wasn’t swollen any more. She had delicate features. She was wearing jeans that cut off at mid-calf and wedged sandals and a loose red linen shirt. He wondered for a second what that shirt would reveal if it was wet before he pushed that thought down. His cock was stirring again. Guess he actually was alive.
And contemptible.

“I thought Drew was a guy’s name.” That was as nice as he could be, he thought defensively. Especially when he might actually be getting a hard-on he definitely didn’t want.

“Can be. Not always. It’s Celtic. It means ‘brave one.’ Not that I’m fearless, of course.” She looked over at him like he would know that.

Oh, yeah. He’d scared her that first night when he was screaming at her and generally acting like an asshole. “Sorry I was a jerk.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” she said lightly, coming over with some of the anti-nausea medicine. He took the spoon from her this time and took it himself. His fingers brushed hers, and a strange little electrical charge shot up his arm. Not like the kind you get from scuffing carpet.

“Not really,” he said.
God, that
stuff tasted awful. Like cherry cough syrup.
Except no alcoholic content.
“Uh, you wouldn’t want to trot out a little more of the hair of the dog, just to take the edge off, would you?”

“Gone.” She shrugged. “And before you think about taking my car into town and getting more, which would be a
very
bad idea, I took the distributor cap and hid it.”

He gave a weary chuckle. “Like that would stop me.” She raised those perfectly arched brows at him. “I’m a good finder,” he explained. She couldn’t know how
good
, of course.

“You’d never find this,” she said. Her half grin was more than a little smug.

“Oh, yeah?” His head might be aching, but surely he was in good enough shape to do such a simple one. He flicked his mind over the image of a distributor cap and took a breath, then closed his eyes, just briefly. “Under the skiff by the prow. Not very original.”

Her look of outrage was funny. “It was
so
original.” Her eyes narrowed. “How did you do that? I thought you were asleep when I hid it. Did you see me put it there?”

“I told you,” he said. “I’m a good finder.” He could see she wasn’t buying it. “Just logical you’d put it there.”

She
harumphed
. She didn’t believe him? “Isn’t that why you wanted to hire my boat? So I could find you some buried treasure?” Surely his reputation for finding things was what had brought her here in the first place.

To his surprise, she blushed furiously. He could see her thinking as fast as she could go. “Yes.
Of course.
But you had another job.”

St. Claire. Shit. He’d missed the job. And he needed that money. He remembered the anguish that morning as he’d realized it was Alice’s birthday. He’d killed a bottle on the boat and staggered up to O’Toole’s for more. An echo of that misery washed over him.

“Hey. Don’t worry,” Drew said, hurrying over as she saw his expression. “St. Claire stopped by
The Purgatory
while I was
there
looking for you, and told the older gentleman he’d be back on Thursday. You haven’t lost the job.”

Like that was important now. Even though he needed the money. But he couldn’t let her know what the real problem was. “Good. I should be ready by then.”

“Yeah. You’ve got all tomorrow.” She smiled at him. It was a warm smile. Like she cared about him. That just reminded him of Alice, who had really cared about him. He’d never know that kind of connection again. Her expression turned
mock-severe
. “If you can stay sober, Mr. I-Can-Find-the-Distributor-Cap.”

“I just didn’t want you to think you could hold out on me,” he said, closing his eyes. All this thinking about Alice and what Alice would want was taking its toll. The slosh of clear vodka in the little pint bottle over the last couple of days repeated in his head like waves on the shore.

“Why don’t you take a shower? Take your mind off it?”

She knew he was thinking about booze? Or maybe she knew he was thinking about Alice.
You promised thinking about you wouldn’t hurt.

He seemed to hear her voice in his mind.

Sooner or later it won’t.

Just wishful thinking.
He’d never really hear her voice again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

She had to think of something to take his mind off the booze. Or Alice. Whatever was causing that expression of regret and self-
hatred.

But what?
The TV didn’t work. She’d tried that first day when he was out cold. He wouldn’t feel like reading with the headache he must have. No video game in sight.

He came out of the shower looking a hundred percent better than he had yesterday. Which made him very dangerous indeed. His beard looked like more than just stubble. The swelling in his eye was down, though it was about six colors, from purple through green to yellow at the edges. His lip had scabbed over and his cheeks as well.

And then of course, there was the killer body.

This was not good. She looked away, pretending to work on dinner, which tonight was going to be some local pompano, steamed, with a Chinese sauce along with some rice and a salad. He’d at least be able to keep down the rice. She kept glancing up at him surreptitiously. He was over looking at the Bowflex. Yeah. That was a great idea.

“That might take your mind off the booze,” she suggested.

“I’d just need another shower.”

“Is that so bad? Plus it might work some more of that alcohol out of your system.”

He didn’t respond. But he started hooking up the machine. “So, where are you from?”

“LA. Well, Palos Verdes, actually.” The official name was Palos Verdes Estates, but she didn’t want to tell him that.

“That’s not LA. LA is not even in the same league. More expensive than Beverly Hills I read somewhere.” Guess he knew anyway. He sat down at the machine.

“Not all of it. My family has a house there.” It was enough of a house that it had a name, but he’d never hear it from her.

“Do you like living there?”

“Sure. It’s by the beach. House is just a little crowded, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, like two kids to a bed?”

She laughed. “No. But when you have six brothers and sisters, it still seems crowded. Plus, my father works from home so he can be there for the family. And my mother ... well, she’s sort of a force of nature—everywhere at once.”

She saw a look of sadness maybe, or regret, slip over his face. He hid it by testing the settings of the Bowflex. “Good problem to have,” he said, pulling on a couple of handles. “And your father does what? Mail-order fulfillment? Earn thousands working from home....”

Uh-oh.
“He, uh, works with nonprofits. Red Cross, Doctors Without Borders, you know, that kind of thing.”

He shot her a glance, like he knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth. Why didn’t she want him to know how privileged her upbringing had been?
Because he lived in a tiny, run-down cabin?
Or because it made her seem shallow and naïve?

“So tell me about your brothers and sisters.”

She had to smile, thinking about them. “That’s a soap opera. And it would take a while.”

“I’ve got to take my mind off my screaming muscles and my headache for about forty-five minutes here and the TV’s broken.”