Missing Lynx (16 page)

I smiled at the other women. “Anyone?”

Isabelle dug one out of her purse and handed it to me then cast a moony gaze over at Striker to see if she would get some approval. But Striker was dividing his attention between Falicia and me.

I handed the pen to Falicia. “Can I have your autograph? I’ve never met a real, live, celebrity cheerleader before.” Falicia didn’t pick up on my sarcasm; she took the pen from me with a superior smile, and signed her name with a flourish. Striker took the opportunity to squeeze my elbow, a warning of some kind. Whatever.

Falicia handed me back the card then took a swig from her beer bottle.

I asked, “Have any of you ever seen anything disappear before your eyes?” No one replied — guess they haven’t. I tore the top right hand corner off Falicia’s business card and handed it to Rebecca. Then I ripped up the rest of Falicia’s card into tiny, satisfying pieces. Falicia narrowed her eyes at me, and the other girls did a little intake of breath. Maybe they thought I was insulting Falicia. Maybe I was. After I’d torn the card into the tiniest pieces I could, I showed them to everyone and fisted them in my left palm. I raised my fist to my lips and blew. As I blew into my fist, I opened my fingers; the pieces of paper had vanished.

“That’s it?” Falicia’s tone was pure boredom.

“Yup, ta-da!” I said.

Falicia gave a sardonic laugh and raised her beer bottle to her lips. Rebecca’s finger came up and pointed at Falicia’s bottle first; her mouth hung open. Everyone focused where Rebecca pointed. Falicia’s beer bottle was now empty of beer and in its place was a single un-bent, un-shredded business card with Falicia’s loopy signature prominently scrawled across it, showing through the dark glass. The upper right hand corner was missing. Rebecca held the corner, which I had handed to her earlier, up to the business card in the bottle. The pieces clearly matched together.

Tracy brought her hands to her cheeks, and Isabelle gripped at her, as if too frightened to stand alone. Falicia gaped at the bottle, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened.

Striker leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Hey, want to dance? This might be a good time to make an exit.” I let him pull me to the dance floor, where the band had started up a slow song that had couples cuddling up and swaying.

“You pull rabbits from hats?” Striker drew me into his arms, putting his palm at the base of my spine, holding my hips tightly to him. I pillowed my head on his chest. “That was pretty good. Pretty accurate, too. Sorry about Falicia. I think she’s knocked back a few already,” Striker said.

“Really? That wasn’t my impression at all. I think she genuinely believes you’re her destiny, Gavin Rheas.” I arched my back so I could see his eyes.

“Yeah? Well, that sentiment is very much unrequited.” His feet moved to the rumba. He was smooth, easy to follow.

He spun me out.

“Did it used to be otherwise?” I asked as he collected me back in his arms.

“No. She was a nice girl in high school, pretty, fun. I never saw her as part of my future, though. She’s not the kind of girl I’d want to spend my life with. I think I’ve seen into all of her corners, and there’s never anything new. She doesn’t grow. It’s all been done, and I’ve moved on. Actually, I moved on about seven years ago, when I graduated high school. I feel a little sorry for her.”

I nodded. She was pitiful. But hearing this didn’t make me any happier about her being here. “Okay,” I said.

Dip –
careful
. He held me there, arched backwards, hair brushing the ground. “Okay, what?”

“Okay, let’s not talk about her - new subject, please.”

He pulled me up and pressed me to him, again. “I have one. The girls thought we were married?”

“They have huge crushes on you.”

“Please don’t tell me that. They’re old friends, and I don’t want to be uncomfortable around them.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you then, nor will I mention how jealous they got when they thought we had tied the knot. I don’t know what to do about my rings. I don’t like people asking about them, and I’m not ready to take them off.”

Striker moved my hand down from his shoulder, and examined my rings, twisting them and angling them. “I could design a ring for you, using all of your stones. I have a friend who’s a jeweler - does custom work. He made the brooch I designed for your Christmas present. We could use your gold, and have him reset the diamonds and sapphires. Angel got you those to match your eyes, didn’t he?”

I rolled my lips in and nodded. Angel. When would I let this guilt go? When would I stop feeling disloyal?

“If you had your rings re-made you could put the new piece on your left or right hand. You would appreciate the significance, but it wouldn’t seem marital, so no one would ask you uncomfortable questions.”

“Oh, that’s a really good idea. Let me sit with it a little bit.”

Striker nodded and gave me a spin. When he pulled me back into his arms, he chuckled. “So, I’m your transmission?”

It sounded stupid hearing that parroted back. I felt my face warming.

“Are you the engine in this metaphor?” he asked.

I nodded, surprised that he had worked his way that far into my logic.

“A transmission is pretty important to an engine’s ability to move forward.”

“Exactly!” I leaned back and looked him in the eye. “You understood me!”

“I’m learning, Chica. I’m learning.”

The music picked up and Striker proved that men from Miami knew how to sway to a Latin beat. We danced and laughed until the five-minute warning sounded. 

The waiters passed out champagne. I took a glass and sipped it cautiously. The bubbles tickled my nose. It didn’t taste anything like I’d imagined. I thought it would be like ginger ale. But no. I sipped some more trying to figure out how I would describe the taste. Striker held out his glass and waited for me to focus on his eyes. “Chica, may this year be filled with raspberry moments, abundantly fresh and sweet.”

A smile played across my lips. “Thank you.” I stretched up to my tip-toes to kiss him. His mouth was soft and tender against mine. As the room counted down the seconds to the New Year and the horns and noisemakers erupted, Striker pulled me up against him. His mouth deepened the kiss. It was all tongue and desire. I melted my body into him like icing on cake. He kissed me dizzy.

Fourteen

S
triker took my hand and tugged me toward the door. “Let’s go watch the fireworks from our balcony.”

I nodded my agreement; I didn’t trust my voice. My body hummed with anticipation. On the way out of the ballroom, Striker grabbed a bottle of champagne and two glasses from a waiter, pulled me toward the elevator, and pressed the floor button.

At our suite, Striker swiped the key and pushed the door open. With his hand on my back, he shepherded me over the threshold, and out onto the balcony. Good God what he could do to me. My body vibrated with need.

The wind, as we stood on the balcony, floated my hair around my face. Striker stood solidly behind me with his protective arms encircling my shoulders, keeping me warm. We watched the beautiful fireworks overhead and mirrored below in the water.

Striker moved my hair over my shoulder. He bent his head and kissed the nape of my neck. eliciting a deep purr from my throat. The humming in my body took over my senses. I spun around and leaned my head back. Striker’s lips voraciously found mine with tongue and heat. His fingers played along my sides. When he unzipping my dress, I slid the spaghetti straps from my shoulders, letting the glittering material pool at my feet.

Striker held my hands and stepped back to look at me. I stood naked except for a lacy white thong and my rhinestone sandals. His eyes moved slowly, appreciatively down my body. That look did things to me deep inside.

I stepped out of my dress, and Striker twirled me slowly around. When his eyes found mine, he gently pulled me back into the suite. “You are so beautiful.” His voice was pitched gruff and low. Striker danced me backward until my bottom pressed against the cool wall. “I love you,” he said. And I felt his words catch me, entangle me, hold me. His lips butterfly kissed down my neck, and I groaned deep in my throat.

My fingers deftly unbuttoned his shirt, and I pulled the silk over his shoulders. Leaning forward to kiss him — my breasts pressed into his chest. His skin was hot against mine, his heart beating a fast tattoo.

With his hand cradling my head, he leaned in, trapping me against the wall, I felt womanly and powerful and full of want. I moved one leg between his, so I could feel him aroused. Striker groaned against my mouth.

I reached for his belt buckle, pulling it out of the loops like a whip. His hands cupped my breasts; his thumbs gently circled my hard nipples. He bent his head and whispered in my ear. “I am so in love with you, Lexi. So beautiful. So soft.” He ran his hands down my sides to my hips. “Satin and luxury.”

I gasped when his fingers traced across the top of my panties.

Boldly, my fingers undid the top clasp of his slacks and moved his zipper down…I startled when Striker used one hand to stop my progress; his other hand rested on my hip. Striker lay his head against the wall to the side of mine. “Lexi, stop,” came his voice husky and thick.

“What? Why? No!” I was panting and oh-so-ready. This sudden brake …what had I done wrong?

“We have to stop,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to stop. I want you inside me.” Franticly, I reached again for his clasp.

Striker’s whole body strained. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed out. “Lexi
, please
stop. I don’t have any protection.”

“Could we get some?” I asked with the tiniest bit of a slur.

Striker moved to sweep me with his assessing look. “Have you ever had alcohol before?” He tipped my head up and tried to get me to focus on him. “Have you ever had champagne?”

“No.” I pouted. Why did he care?

“Chica, I can’t do this when you’re tipsy.”

“I want to do this.” I whispered under my breath.

Striker picked up his shirt, and dressed me in it, slowly buttoning it up. “I am fighting every cell in my body. Believe me, I want to do this too. If we were already lovers, I wouldn’t stop for anything short of a nuclear explosion. But your first time, I need
you
to make the choice, not let the alcohol choose for you.” He led me by the hand back to the couch, and we sat down.

“You’re being a good guy.” I was beyond miffed. I was melting from the fire he started inside me and there he sat solid and calm. How the hell did he do that? I squirmed uncomfortably, pushing my thighs together, trying to find relief.

Striker focused on me. His eyes, black as coal, glittered with intensity. Okay, maybe not so calm.

“I don’t want you to be a good guy,” I whispered. “I want you to take advantage of me.”

He pulled me onto his lap. “How are you doing?”

I sat with that for a minute before I replied. “I’m frustrated as hell… my nose is numb… and my stomach’s a little ishy.”

Striker gave a low chuckle. “I’m frustrated as hell, too,” he whispered and pressed a kiss onto my temple. His nose rubbed against my hair, and he breathed me in. After a minute, he reached over and called room service to bring us up some food.

We ate in silence then Striker took me by the hand and walked me into his room. He took his dress shirt off of me, replacing it with a T-shirt that came nearly to my knees. As I sat on his bed, he knelt at my feet to unbuckle my high heels. I felt incredibly sexy as he rubbed a hand up my calf.
Don’t stop! Don’t stop now
. A little groan escaped my lips, and he stilled. He shook his head slowly “no” and stood to take off his dress pants. He was still hard. Another wave of lust rushed through me, and I watched with disappointment as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants. He drew me under the covers with him. We cuddled and kissed and spooned, and I fell asleep feeling lonely.

Fifteen

I
woke up to sticky eyeballs. My head clanged. My stomach churned. Striker lay beside me, bare chested. He reached out and traced a finger down the side of my face, tucking a loose tendril behind my ear. “Feeling rough this morning?” His voice was all concern.

As Striker waited for my answer, my mind scrambled to last night and how I ended up in his bed. I lifted the sheets to see what I was wearing.

“Nothing happened.” Striker reassured me.

“Oh yeah, now I remember.” I blew out a long breath. As my head fell back to the pillow, I squinched my lids tight, and threw an arm over my face to hide. “How embarrassed should I be right now?”

Striker chuckled, lifting my arm so he could see me. “Not at all embarrassed. You are a
very
sexy drunk, but a complete lightweight.”

“I feel awful.”

“I bet. Let’s get you fixed up.” Striker climbed over me and brought back some Tylenol and a nasty fizzy drink. I had to hold my nose to get the mess down, but I improved dramatically as soon as I did. Striker went off to take a shower. I wished my head wasn’t stuffed full of cotton; I’d like to join him. Still beyond frustrated from last night, I would’ve loved to have his big calloused hands soaping my body. Damned champagne.

I needed to get myself together. This was the day I’d being meeting Lynda and Cammy. I wasn’t going to be able to handle it feeling like this. While Striker showered, I put my hands to my head and performed Reiki. Reiki was healing energy. Ki meant energy in Japanese, like the chi in Tai Chi I did with Master Wang, or pranayama in yoga I did with my Kitchen Grandmother, Biji. I first became aware that people used healing energy when my mom was in hospice care. Our lead nurse, Kim, did several different energy techniques, and she taught them to me, so I could bring my mom comfort at the end of her life. I’ve used Reiki almost daily since then; it just became part of who I was.

Sadly for me, it worked far better helping those around me than curing myself. I’ve heard other practitioners say the same thing. I thought there was something intrinsically soothing in just putting hands on someone in a caring way and giving them attention.