Personal Demons (5 page)

“Something else to drink? Water, soda?” Gabe says, staring at me.

And, mmm . . . those eyes. I feel my heart flutter for an instant, fighting to hold on to its normal rhythm. “I have a beer, thanks,” I say, but as I speak, I feel the cup being lifted from my hand.

“And I’ll just top it off for you.” Luc’s hot breath on the back of my neck sends a shiver through me, and my fluttering heart stops. I turn and his face is just an inch from mine. The silk wisps of his tousled mop brush my forehead and I breathe him in: cinnamon . . . mmm.

Taylor’s all but losing it. “Holy shit! Where’d you come from?”

Luc straightens up and refills my cup. “I’ve been around,” he says, gesturing to the crowd at the bonfire. But I was just there—and he wasn’t.

“Wow . . . okay. This party just got a whole hell of a lot cooler.” She looks from Luc to Gabe and back, then eases out of Marty’s grasp and meanders over to stand next to Luc. She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “So . . . are we sticking around?”

“Uh . . . well . . .” I look to Riley for backup. “I think we’re leaving?”

Riley is still staring at Gabe. “Not yet.”

Luc hands me my beer and glowers at Gabe, who’s moved closer. “Gabriel,” he says, his warm-honey voice suddenly cold enough to freeze Hell.

“Hello, Lucifer.” And, though his smile doesn’t falter, Gabe’s musical voice just went flat.

“Wait . . . you
know
each other?” I stand between them, a little wobbly. The air around us seems charged with static electricity, making me tingle all over.

Gabe quirks a crooked smile and eyes Luc. “You could say that.”

“Unfortunately,” Luc adds. He’s sort of smiling, but under that calm demeanor he’s anything but calm. Even from a foot away, I can feel the tension in his body, coiled and ready to spring. His jaw clenches and his fists are balled at his side, dying to swing out at something—or someone. As I watch, I swear I see a tiny lick of red lightning flicker over the surface of his hand and disappear between his knuckles.

I just stand here, speechless, my whole body buzzing with the growing electric charge in the air, and try to figure out when I slipped into the Twilight Zone. ’Cause, as my gaze shifts between Luc and Gabe, I know for sure this can’t be real. And I start to wonder if maybe Jackson spiked my beer or something.

Angelique, realizing the attention isn’t on her, shoots me a glare before peeling off her jeans jacket to reveal a very low-cut tank top. She wedges in front of me, between Luc and Gabe, and I’m actually relieved to be released from whatever that
bizarre electric pull was. But immediately, Taylor shoulders her out of the way.

“Where’s Adam?” she asks Angelique in a slimy-sweet voice with a matching fake smile.

Angelique grinds her heel into Taylor’s foot. “Adam who?”

I start to feel a little dizzy and realize I’m not breathing. I back away from the group, close my eyes, and take a deep breath, trying to collect myself.

“So . . .” Luc’s voice, low in my ear, makes me jump. I open my eyes and feel my legs go soft. He quirks half a smile and twists a strand of hair out of my face, looping it behind my ear. “I was hoping you’d let me drive you home.”

It’s clear from my racing heart that leaving with Luc would be a mistake. I glance at Gabe, who’s still staring at me. A hot flush works its way up my neck into my face as I realize staying might be a bigger mistake.

I step up next to Riley. “Are you ready? Let’s go.” I sound completely desperate, which I guess I am.

She glances over at Trevor and smiles. “Sorry, Fee,” she says turning back to me with a shrug.

I feel Luc’s heat, too close behind me, but I don’t turn to look at him. “I’m ready,” he says.

Oh, God.
Why can’t I breathe?

My eyes slide back to Gabe, which turns out to be a mistake ’cause he’s still staring at me, and those blue eyes are doing nothing to help the breathing situation.

I pull my eyes away and spin with my back to both him and Luc—and see Reefer and the band piling out of his black pickup.

Crap.

I turn back to Luc, careful to avoid his eyes. Oxygen deprivation makes thinking a challenge, but I’m able to stammer out, “Um . . . okay. We can go, I guess . . . if you want.”

Riley is standing back from the catfight. I raise my voice slightly to be heard over the foray. “Riley.” She looks my way. “I’m going with Luc . . . ’kay?”

The firelight flickers in her eyes as she smiles knowingly and nods.

I glance once more at Gabe, who holds my eyes with his and shoots me a glowing smile, and then I feel the tips of Luc’s fingers scorch through the shirt in the small of my back. I catch his cinnamon as he leans in from behind and whispers, “Let’s go.”

At his touch, a tingle starts low in my belly and works its way through me, growing in intensity till my whole body is humming—some parts more than others. I let him steer me and my Jell-O legs to his car.

So, He sent Gabriel. Not an angel—a Dominion. A protector from the Second Sphere. And not just any Dominion, but the left hand of
the
Gabriel. That can only mean one thing: Frannie’s soul is worth fighting for.

As we pull away from the party, Frannie checks out the car. “Cool, a Shelby Cobra GT. And in great condition. This is a classic. A ’67?”

I can’t help smiling. “A ’68. You know your Mustangs.”

She turns to me and smiles, and I’m suddenly struck with how unbelievably alive she is. Not that all mortals aren’t alive by definition, but there are degrees of aliveness. Some people are mostly dead, even when they think they’re alive. Frannie’s not one of them.

“That was impressive, by the way.”

She shoots me a sidelong glance. “What?”

“The flipping the big guy over your head thing.”

Her eyes widen. “You saw that?”

“I did. He has to weigh double what you do. Impressive.”

She turns away and looks out the window. “Yeah, whatever.” But I can tell she’s smiling.

“So . . .”

“So, what?”

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Judo. Eight years.”

“Interesting.” I like this girl more every minute. “So . . . where to?”

She turns back to face me with a hint of a smile. “I thought you said you were driving me home.” She’s starting to relax—moving her shoulders to the beat of the music from the stereo.

“Hmm, did I? Well . . . if that’s what you want . . .”

Her eyebrows arch and a shrewd little smile just turns up the corners of her lips. “Did you have something else in mind?”

“We could work on our English outline,” I say and almost can’t contain the chuckle.

“Really? That’s your idea of a hot date?”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware we were on a ‘hot date.’ ” And this time I
can’t
contain the chuckle when she cringes. “So, how hot
would you like it? I’m capable of all levels of hotness, from
Luc-
warm to—and I’m being literal here—hotter than Hell.”

I watch her cheeks flush and the car floods with ginger. This is excellent progress.

“Um, well . . . I was thinking more about . . . maybe we could work on that outline . . .” Her voice trails off, and she’s as red as the embers of Hell.

“The outline . . . excellent suggestion. Why didn’t I think of that?” I turn my most charming smile on her. “Your house or mine?”

Her brow furrows as she contemplates her choices. “Maybe I should just go home,” she finally says.

“As you wish.”

We ride in silence, but as I take the corner into her neighborhood she blurts, “Do you do coffee hot? There’s a Starbucks just around the corner.”

The tires squeal as I take the right turn too fast, and I work to hide my grin as she grips her seat to keep from falling on top of me.

“So how do you know that Gabe guy?” she asks over the top of her steaming coffee cup.

“It’s a very long story.” Seven thousand years long.

“Are you, like, friends or something?”

“Not really. We play for rival teams.”

“Like, football?” She looks puzzled, not pegging me for a football player, I suppose.

I lean forward and gaze into her eyes, brushing my fingers across the back of her hand on the table. I watch as she shudders, and an electric tingle courses through me—excitement? anticipation?—at the rush of her pulse under my fingers. I push with my mind just the tiniest bit. “You know, I’d much rather talk about you. Tell me something I don’t know about Mary Francis Cavanaugh.”

She swoons a little and stares back for a long moment before saying, “I hate my name,” through a haze.

“Then why don’t you go by Mary?”

“ ’Cause that’s my sister’s name.” The fog starts to lift, and she leans onto her elbows on the table, accentuating certain curves and seriously distracting me.

I force myself to breathe deep and look back into her eyes. “Your sister is Mary too?”

“All of them are, but only my oldest sister goes by it.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Four.”

“And all five of you are Mary? That sounds like it’d be confusing.”

“That’s why we don’t all go by it.”

“What are the rest of your sisters’ names?”

“Well, there’s Mary Theresa—she’s Mary. And Mary Katherine—Kate. Then me—Mary Francis. Mary Grace—she’s just Grace. And Mary Margaret—Maggie.”

I bite back the chuckle. This is
sooo
rich. “A good Catholic family,” I say, trying to sound sincere.

“I suppose you could say that.” Hmm . . . vinegar. Guilt? I’ll have to explore that later.

As she sips the last of her coffee, she tips her head back, arching her long, fair neck and pulling her shirt tight across her chest. The wave of desire I feel is almost incapacitating. I close my eyes against it and try to clear my head.
Focus.
When I open them, she’s staring at me.

“I probably should be getting home . . .” she says, sounding a little disappointed.

“As you wish,” I say, wanting to take her anywhere but home.

We pull up to my house and Luc kills the engine. The family room light cuts a yellow swath across the front lawn. Dad’s waiting up, as usual.

Saving Abel’s “Addicted” is blasting out of Luc’s stereo, telling me about things happening between the sheets, sending my heart pounding right out of my body and my imagination reeling. I’m no angel; I’ve been with guys before. Well, not with them like
that
, but almost. Third Base Plus, I call it. But it’s always been me keeping score, and none of them have ever wreaked havoc on my imagination the way Luc does. It’s like, without ever touching me, he’s climbed right into my head and is looking around in there for my dirtiest thoughts and fantasies. And when he finds them, he brings them to life. I’m talking full-color, 3-D sensivision. But what I hate is, I kinda like it. No boy has ever made me feel so totally out of control. It scares the hell out of me—in a giddy-tingly-wild and not-altogether-bad way.

I turn back to find him staring at me, and all of a sudden there’s no oxygen in the car. I draw a ragged breath. “So, thanks for the coffee,” I say, wanting to bolt out of the car but also wanting to stay all night.

“Was it hot enough for you—coffee hot? Because next time we could try something a little hotter, if you want.” Mmm . . . that wicked grin. . . . But I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Is he making fun of me?

“That was . . .” and I don’t know how to finish, ’cause what’s going on inside is a whole hell of a lot hotter than coffee. It’s everything I can do to resist the urge to reach out and touch him. “So, I’ll see you Monday.” I reach for the door handle with a trembling hand, and suddenly his hand is there, on top of mine.

He leans into me and, with his other hand, he sweeps my hair back from my ear. I feel his lips brush my skin as he whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”

His hot breath in my ear sends a shiver through me, and I’m mortified when I realize the soft moan I just heard was mine. Embarrassed, I pull at the door handle, but his hot hand is still there, keeping me from opening it.

“What, no goodnight kiss?” he says, and when I turn to look at him, my nose brushes his.

I refuse to give in to the panic bubbling up from my gut—or the part of me that still wants to kiss him. I look him in the eye and work to keep my voice even as I plant my hand on his chest and shove. “Not on the first date.”

His expression turns momentarily amused but then softens. “As you wish,” he says. His finger scorches a track along the line
of my jaw, then he leans back into his seat and smiles. “Pleasant dreams.”

I stare at him for a moment more then push open the door and stagger out of the car. He starts the engine as I swing the door shut, but he doesn’t pull out. I can feel the weight of his gaze as I stumble up the front walk to the door. And before I close it behind me, I glance back and see the red glow of his eyes in the dashboard lights.

I head quickly up the stairs, and when I get to my room, I hurry to the window and watch Luc’s taillights disappear down the street. I stare out the window for a long time at the spot where he dropped me off, feeling my heart pound and that tingle in my belly as I imagine letting him kiss me. I groan quietly to myself, and I walk to the dresser where I pick up my brother’s picture. “I’m losing it, Matt,” I whisper to him.