Something Wicked (4 page)

Goosebumps erupted on my skin, which longed for his soft
lips to brush up against the gentle curve of my belly.  

He angled around me, wrapping his arms around my legs as he
did an intricate dance with the tarp and the roll of tape. Closing my eyes, I
could feel his steady breath lightly brushing against the small of my back. His
hands, rough with callouses, scraped along my skin, and followed the line of
his exhalation. I arched slightly as my nerve center lit up, and I imagined his
strong fingers playing with the elastic band on the leg my panties. I squeezed
my Kegel muscles gently and a small gasp escaped my lips.  

His hard body slid against my backside as he stood to his
full 6-foot frame. He reached his arms up and covered my hands with his. Time
stopped as I relaxed into him, his hard cock pressing against my ass through
the thin fabric of our clothes. My breath came quicker, and I longed to turn
into him, to press my lips against his and tease his mouth open with my tongue.

"You can let go now, thanks," Finn said, his voice
husky.

 "Right," I whispered. Reluctantly, I released my
hold on the tarp and opened my eyes. As soon as I got close to him, my body
betrayed me.

I shuffled quickly across the room, putting distance between
us, just as Amanda came out of the bathroom. Tara was upright, but not walking
on her own. Amanda was dragging her, pretty much.

Finn shot a look of disgust their way. "I tossed her
out of the bar at around 11 tonight. No one in their right mind should have
served her."

"Maybe she was roofied," I suggested, even though
I didn't believe it. Rejected by some guy, she found solace in the bottom of a
bottle. She wouldn't be the first co-ed to do it. But I was tired and punchy
and pretty horny. Giving Finn shit felt good. It was that or throw him on the
coffee table to have wild sex. Option one was safest.

"A little help please?" Amanda called out,
slumping under Tara's dead weight. With me holding Tara up on the other side,
we managed to get her to the couch. She flopped over like a rag doll.

Finally released from Tara's inebriated grip, Amanda rounded
on me. "Iz, she's loaded, not roofied. Why are you even defending this
bitch? She tossed a
brick
through your
window
."

"As much as I hate to agree with Amanda..." Finn
stopped himself, probably so he didn't have to completely agree with her.

"Whatever she did, she didn't know what she was
doing," I said to Amanda, who was heading up the stairs.

Amanda stopped halfway and looked back at me. "What you
should do is call the cops. Instead your letting her sleep it off on our couch
instead of the Willimantic PD's drunk tank."

"You're going to bed?" I asked feebly, looking
between Tara, Finn and Amanda.

"Yup, and you should do the same," she said.

"What if she gets sick again?"

"I think she's pretty much barfed out," Amanda
said dryly over her shoulder.

"Wait," Finn barked at Amanda. She glared at him,
but stopped. "Can someone tell me why was she here, throwing bricks at the
windows?"

"Ask our resident witch," Amanda huffed, this time
continuing up the stairs. "Good night."

I slowly turned to face Finn, gearing up for an argument. He
hated my witchy ways on the best days.

"Don't look at me with those sad eyes," he said.
"What did you do?"

"I didn't
do
anything," I said. "And I
resent your assumption that this was totally my fault."

"Amanda said to ask the witch, so it means you did some
sort of hocus pocus that turned into a brick through the window. So yeah, I'm
thinking, it’s your fault."

"All I did was give her a love potion," I said.

His nostrils flared. "You did what?"

"I gave her a love potion. You were there, today when I
made it." Finn was making me nervous, so I started babbling. "And, it
was exactly the way Grams did it so there was no way I screwed it up. I don't
know what happened, but I guess she tried it and it didn't work, it could be
that he just isn't that into her. I can't bend a guy's will—that would be a
very, very bad thing for a witch to do."

I paused to catch my breath.

"Free will. That's important," he said calmly.

My mouth dropped open. Not only did he understand what I was
talking about, he also wasn't about to lay into me for serving up a love potion?
Did Finn have a doppelganger that could see reason?

"Yes, it's very important," I agreed, partly
because I realized my mouth was simply gaping open like a simpleton.

"And I hope you learned your lesson..." he
started.

And he was off! I immediately tuned him out as he lectured
me about witchcraft. And how I had to stop taking it all so seriously. And how
I should really print up signs that say "for entertainment purposes
only."

 Yawning, I settled into the armchair beside the couch,
drawing over me the old afghan blanket that was draped over the back. I closed
my eyes, hoping Finn's admonitions became white noise that lulled me to sleep.

"Izzy," annoyance crept into his voice.
"Aren't you listening to me?"

"Hmmm hmmmm," I wheezed at him, pretending that I
was already half way to la-la land.

"Dammit, Iz, when are you going to learn?"

I cracked open one eye when I heard the creak on the third
step of the staircase. Finn finally gave up. I slumped down into the
uncomfortable chair and opened the other eye and looked at Tara. If there was
karmic justice, she wouldn't barf again, and I'd be able to get a few hours
sleep.  

CHAPTER FIVE

Finn

Finn ripped off his pajama pants before he closed the door
to his room. His penis was so engorged that he was shocked that neither Amanda
nor Izzy noticed his epic boner. The bulky appendage pressed against its
confined space so hard, he was convinced that his pants would burst.

Izzy didn't follow him up the stairs. It was probably for
the best. The thought of her sleeping nearly naked next door to his room was
exactly what would send him over the edge. And he needed to keep his head on
straight—both heads for that matter—to get Izzy out of this fix.

Finn paced the room, trying to force his erection down.
Striding to his closet, he pulled out a worn army duffle bag. He reached his
hand to the bottom. He felt around for a minute, eventually pulling a heavy
book. He dropped it on his dresser, holding his hand just over the top. He
focused on sending his pent up sexual energy into the book.

The book sparked, and Finn let out a small roar of
frustration. He was still turned on by the thought of Izzy, He considered
calling one of his fuck-buddies. Maybe big-breasted Lindsey would be the
perfect antidote. But he'd have to sneak her by Izzy, who was crashed out in
the living room. And he hated parading his one-night-stands past her. He
preferred sneaking them in and out of the house.

It wasn't like she didn't know, but it was better if she
didn't see.

Abandoning the Lindsey idea, he yanked off his
cock-confining pants. Dropping them in a heap on the floor, he crawled into
bed.

But sleep didn't come easy. Izzy got herself into some
magical trouble, and she was laying just below his room in little more than her
undies. And damn she looked good in those panties. They were just plain old
black cotton bikinis, too. Nothing fancy, no lacy or silk or peek-a-boo fabric.
Just cotton. He found it extraordinary how she could make something so simple
so damn hot.

With her arms above her head as she held up the tarp, her
tank top rose just enough to show off the soft curve of her stomach. Thinking
about her firm nipples and perky breasts, Finn reached to feel his still rock
hard erection. His breath caught, imagining rolling one of those nipples
between his fingers. He was beyond aroused now, and slowly rubbed pre-come
along his shaft, thinking of her soft, full lips sliding up and down it instead
of his hand.

For six months he had kept himself in check, keeping an
indifferent eye on her, just like he promised he would. But everyday he spent
under her roof, he grew more and more attached to this funny woman, who worked
herself to the bone to keep her grandmother's house and to pay her
grandmother's debts, putting off her own education in favor of taking care of
her familial obligations. He never once heard her complain about it either.

His breath quickened when he thought about the first time he
met her, sopping wet hair soaking the back of her oversized tee-shirt. A towel
was wrapped around her waist for good measure, and he remembered the curve of
her thigh peeking out of the slit in front. At the sight of her leg, and the
promise of what else she was hiding under that towel, Finn almost forgot the 15
minutes he spent ringing the stupid thing she called a doorbell while she was
in the shower.

"It's a Victorian home," she explained the
doorbell, water droplets flying around as she tossed her long hair. "The
twist doorbells don't have a whole lot of muscle, but they sure are cute!"

Sitting in the living room over a cup of tea and some
mind-bogglingly good Snickerdoodle cookies, her towel crept further up her
luscious thighs. He was barely able to keep from spilling his tea while they
discussed the particulars of living in the old Victorian with her and her
snarky best friend. What he really wanted to do was kiss her, and release the
towel from her waist while he was at it.

Instead, he went back to his hotel room to beat off, just
like he was doing now. Nothing changed in six months.

Nothing and everything. Izzy was still sexy as hell, but now
he had to contain both his urge to fuck her and his urge to protect her every
time the shit hit the fan. And Izzy was like a monkey flinging poo. Shit
constantly flew in every direction.

CHAPTER SIX

Did you ever notice how slow coffee brews, especially when
you are waiting for the pot to fill? I considered putting my cup under the flow
of coffee, but coffee tasted nasty that way. Today definitely called for a good
cup of Joe.

It was 7 AM and Tara was sitting at the kitchen table. Maybe
sitting wasn't the right word. She was kind of propped up on her elbows. I
didn't want to give her aspirin on an empty stomach—she still looked green from
last night's epic booze-a-thon. Hence my impatient wait for the coffee to brew.
If she could keep the java down, I'd try dry toast next.

I turned on the faucet and filled a glass with tepid tap
water. I added a dropper full of milk thistle, then placed it in front of her.
"This should help."

She flinched at the sound of my voice, even though it was
barely above a whisper. Hope she didn't have anything planned for today,
because she really needed to go back to bed.

And she needed french fries. French fries were like a
cure-all for bad hangovers. Maybe pancakes too.

But the milk thistle would help—it would at least get her
home. B12, too, but I was fresh out.

Tara didn't even bother to lift the glass to her lips. She
just kind of lowered her head towards the glass and almost lapped the water
out. At least she was hydrating, right?

"Morning!" Amanda swept into the kitchen, stuffing
books into the messenger bag slung across her body. "Oh good, coffee's
almost done!"

With her damp curls bouncing on her shoulders, she looked
downright perky. She flashed a bright smile at Tara. "And how are we
feeling this morning?"

Tara lifted her watery eyes and muttered something
completely unintelligible.

"Still not so good, huh?" Amanda wrinkled her nose
in faux concern. "Sorry, hon, but you're going to need to move your car
soon. I have to get to campus and you're blocking me."

Tara responded by laying her head on the kitchen table.

Amanda grinned. She was enjoying this way too much.

"You're in a good mood this morning," I said.

"I'm a morning person," she responded with a wink.

"I think I know you better than that," I snorted,
grabbing three mugs out of the cabinet while the coffee perked out its final
remains.

I poured the coffee into the mugs, leaving one on the
counter for Amanda and placing another an arms length away from Tara.

"Want some granola?" Amanda called out, giving the
box a good shake before pouring it out into a bowl.

Tara responded with a groan. Amanda smirked.

"Tara," I said gently, pushing the mug towards her
slightly. "Coffee's ready. And drink more of that tonic, it'll make you
feel better."

She looked up at me, her face twisted with pain. This time
she lifted the glass and drank down the milk thistle concoction. "That was
disgusting."

I shrugged. "Maybe, but you'll feel better soon."

"This in no way makes up for what you did," she
hissed, pushing the empty glass at me.

"Whoa!" Amanda's mood changed as quickly as the
weather in New England. "You throw a brick in our window, stink up our
bathroom with your vodka barfs, and pass out on our couch. You should be writing
us a goddamn check."

"My daddy will pay for the window," Tara's voice
was icy even though her face was still kind of green. "But Izzy, this was
all your fault. You need to fix that spell."

I took a big gulp of coffee. Dehydration showed on her cracked
lips. Between that and her greenish pallor, she looked an awful lot like a
blond version of Regan from
The Exorcist
.

"Tara," I squeaked out, wanting to blame the hot
coffee burning a path down my throat. Really, I'm a wuss. I hate confrontation.

But she held up her hand to stop me, swaying a little in her
chair. Her eyes refocused. "I want this boy, Izzy. And that love potion
has to do it."

"Free will," I started weakly, but she interrupted
me again.

"There is no free will for this one," she said.
"Understand me? None. Or else I will use my free will to find another
witch for Pledge Week and for our annual Halloween party. And you can forget
any referrals to the other girls for shopping excursions. We'll travel to
Hartford instead."

Then she groaned and put her head back on the table.

My hands shook in anger and I put down my coffee before it
spilled all over the place. Amanda glared at the back of Tara's head. She
opened her mouth to tell her off, but I shook my head.

"It's cool, Amanda," I said, my voice surprisingly
calm. "Tara, I can't do a spell like that. I am not that kind of
witch."

"Then you better turn into that kind of witch,"
she snarled, lifting her head from the table. My mouth gaped open. What a
spoiled brat. I took a deep breath, letting my anger override my fear.
"Tara, I can't compromise someone's freewill."

"What about my free will?" she whined.

I tried to slow my breathing. "Tara, you don't
understand. Your free will is not being compromised."

"I understand perfectly fine," she snarled. "You
sold me a faulty potion and now you're trying to blame me."

"It's not like that!" I protested. "What you
are asking me to do is...not right."

"It won't feel right when you lose the support of the Greeks,"
she scowled.

I started to protest but snapped my mouth closed. If I lost
the support of the sororities, I'd lose everything.

"Are you ready for the consequences of taking someone's
free will? Because I won't shoulder it for you," I responded.

"What are you talking about?"

"This is a road of magic you do not want to go
down," I told her. "It can be a dark, dangerous path."

"Izzy," Amanda warned. She looked a little
unnerved. I must be in full on witch mode. Amanda once told me that I looked
scary when it happened. Said I looked like I was electrocuted. With flyaway
hair, and my green eyes turning yellow, and glowing. When the witch really took
over me, I had to admit, it felt kind of nice. Powerful.

I pulled my spine straighter, smoothed down my hair and
continued. Tara would not bully me into magic out of my comfort zone. "If
I do this, I will not take the repercussions for you. Because there will be
repercussions."

This got Tara's attention, and she sat up again. "God,
stop being so dramatic."

Maybe Tara didn't notice the witch in me rising.

"I will not take the repercussions," I said again,
my voice stern.

"Fine, fine, whatever," Tara brushed it off.
"I don't give a shit
who
take or doesn't take these repercussions.
Just make that damn potion work."

"You've no idea what you're gotten into," I told
her.

"Ooooh, I am so scared," she mocked, dragging
herself to her feet. Either the hangover cure kicked in or being a bitch simply
made her feel much better. "Look, just fix the spell there's nothing to
worry about. Now where the hell is my purse?"

"On the coffee table in the other room," Amanda
grumped. "And don't let the door hit you..."

I cut her off with a look. She smirked and turned back to
her granola.

"I'll walk you out," I said to Tara's back as she
pushed past me, the smell of stale beer lingering in her wake.

"Are you insane?" Amanda whispered, grabbing my
arm before I could follow Tara into the other room. "How the hell are you
going to do a black magic spell?"

I shrugged and she released my arm. I trailed after Tara.

"Where's your other housemate?" Tara asked as she
poked around the living room looking for her bag. She moved like molasses, I
assumed from the hangover.

"Don't know," I said, feeling my pulse leap at the
mention of Finn. I'd heard him stomp down the stairs while I readied the coffee
this morning. "He left early."

"Does he always leave early?"

I shrugged. "No idea. He keeps to himself mostly."

I saw her purse on the floor under the coffee table. Of
course, it was a freaking Birkin. That one bag would cover the cost of my
college classes for a year. Full time. The words "not fair" caught in
my throat. I swallowed them back down and snatched up the overpriced cowhide
and handed it to her.

She took it from me and rooted through it, coming up
triumphant with a pair of sunglasses. Of course they were Gucci.

I opened the front door wide, and she flounced right past
me.

"And you should totally do that dark witchy shit at the
Halloween party. It'll go over like gangbusters," she said, blinking in
the morning sun. Clearly, she noticed that I went a little scary witchy in the
kitchen. Obviously, it didn't phase her one bit.

 As she stepped through the threshold, karmic justice took
over. She tripped.

"Whoa!" I said, grabbing her from behind before
she landed ass over teakettle. "You sure you're okay to drive?"

She righted herself, and snarled at me. "I am fine to
drive. You, however, should pick up the junk on your porch. Someone could break
their neck out here."

And with that, she put on her overpriced sunglasses, whipped
her snarled hair around and stalked to her car.

Only when the engine to the Mercedes turned over did I see
what she stumbled over. It was a strange book— oversized and pretty thick, with
a worn leather cover. It looked ancient.

I glanced around, half expecting someone to pop out of the
bushes. But apart from a few cars burning down the road, there was no one
there. Not even a dog walker. I squatted down and examined it like I was a CSI
and it was a piece of evidence. I ran my fingertips along the leather cover. I
could feel the grooves where there was once a symbol stamped into it. Time wore
it down so much that barely a mark was left. I picked the book up, feeling my
wrist give slightly under the weight of the thing. Turning it, I noticed its
binding was cracked. There was no doubt it was an old thing, and in pretty
fragile shape.

Carefully, I opened it. The words on the pages were
handwritten in elaborate script, a cursive writing that was no longer practiced
anymore. It was like an oversized ornate journal. But before I could make out
the words on the page—the handwriting was a little hard to read—a lose page
dropped out, landing beside my foot.

Unlike the book's yellowed paper, this was crisp and white.
It was a note, and it was addressed to me, my name written out in careful block
letters in black ink. I opened the folded piece of paper, and those same block
letters wrote out:
This should fix your spell problem.  

Shoving the note back into the book, I quickly stood and
looked around once more. The yard was quiet, save for a sparrow chirping away
in the bushes to my left. Who could possibly know I have a spell problem? I did
one last visual sweep of the neighborhood, and once again came up empty.

I rubbed my finger along the book's cover apprehensively. I
didn't even need to read the contents to know it was a Book of Shadows, a
witch's spell book. There was a whole bookcase in the attic sagging under the
weight of the many spell books passed down in my own family. Grams' Book of
Shadows was stashed in our butler's pantry along with the cookbooks. My own
Book of Shadows, a pathetic work in progress, was wedged between Grams and a
dog-eared, second edition copy of
The Joy of Cooking
. (It's the edition
that shows you how to skin a squirrel.)

Hugging the sizable tome to my chest, I turned to go back
into the house. It was time to face facts. I was a solid diviner; my choice of
tools, my Tarot decks. But my spell and potion work just wasn't strong enough,
and that's why the love spell failed.

We'd never used spells that weren't concocted by some family
member and then passed down over the years. But Gran never said another witch's
spells were off limits either. Maybe this strange book would kick start my
magic. At this point, I had nothing to lose.