The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (12 page)

The way he saw it, there was only one true concern: the likelihood she was going to take him down the rabbit hole right along with her.

On the other hand, he hardly needed to worry yet. Even if she had kissed him, it didn’t guarantee she would call. He’d learned that back in college. She’d already provided a two-way excuse. Bizarre and brilliant, just like her.

The heavy building door slammed shut behind him. His truck was exactly how he’d left it, hubcaps and all. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Then he spotted the massive bird bomb on the driver’s side of the windshield. The winged menace must have eaten something red that hadn’t wholly agreed with its digestive system. The stain was suspiciously similar to the one Darcy had ended up wearing after bitching Cayden out. Hadn’t Cayden mentioned raspberries when she was talking to her crow? That would certainly account for the color-enhanced splatter on his windshield. He’d read somewhere that birds could be both protective and jealous of their owners. A caw-caw lured him into a glance up at Cayden’s window. If he didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the damn bird was laughing at him.

Chapter Eight

S
witchblade Symphony’s “Witches” echoed through The Night Crawler’s aging speaker system. Cayden doubted Clint had ever heard the song before or had caught the title. He didn’t stick out so much here as he was just too wholesomely handsome to blend well with the crypt/dungeon atmosphere and patrons of the club. She took a sip of her cocktail and studied him across the rough wooden high top. He was taking a long pull from his Sam Adams, looking vaguely uneasy. The black T-shirt he wore was silk. It caressed his muscular shoulders and arms rather than hugging them. His jeans were snug, black, and definitely new.

Should she be flattered he’d bought new clothes for a date with her, or suspicious he was trying to appear to be something he wasn’t? The outfit wasn’t poser level; it could be worn almost anywhere. She didn’t think he would wear it while out with his friends, though, or on a date with Barbie, either.

Had he rushed out shopping after ransacking his closet in quiet desperation, as she had? Her effort had paid off, if she’d read his body language correctly when she opened her apartment door tonight. She’d already owned the elbow-length black lace fingerless gloves and super-long garter-lace ruffle scarf, but the black-trimmed emerald green corset and matching satin mini-skirt beneath a layer of black lace had been a real find, along with the green satin open-toe five-inch stilettos, which had cost her three weeks’ HandiMart pay. That purchase hadn’t been much of a decision. Having tried them on, she could hardly be expected to live without them. They were, after all, an investment of sorts.

Besides, the outfit was a suitable reward for her persistence, and eventual success, in getting hold of Clint. She’d tried and failed twice to call him on Monday, so nervous even her well-grounded land line had fried. Each attempt had required hours of work to return it to a functioning state.

She’d spent the better part of her Tuesday writing and deleting e-mails between rounds of berating herself for being such a basket case. If the system had crashed five times, well, at least it hadn’t fried again. She’d all but given up by Wednesday, which was probably why she’d succeeded in leaving him a voicemail. Either that, or she’d managed a feat of electrical engineering that would survive the apocalypse.

Relief at not having to talk directly to Clint had likely been a factor, along with the script she’d written, stating simply that, provided he still wanted to go out with her, he could pick her up at nine o’clock Friday evening. If it didn’t work for him, for whatever reason, he should tell Bill to tell Trina on Thursday. It wasn’t the most efficient method of communication, though Clint’s reply—via Bill, through Trina—had the added benefit of the mediums’ editorial comments.

According to Trina, Bill had been there when Clint listened to her voicemail. His boss had lit up like Macy’s at Christmas, her father had remarked. Trina said it was a lame expression, but a good sign. She also divulged that it had been her idea for Mr. MacAllen to ask her out—provided he take her advice on style—though wasn’t he sort of hot, even if he was only marginally cool?

The inside information was a double-edged sword. It reinforced her awareness of the powerful chemistry between her and Clint, as well as their differences. The dilemma of what to wear for a date with him had forced a confrontation with Cayden’s own sense of self, and thus her wardrobe. She’d gone full circle, inevitably returning to where she started, but the process had been harsh. Shopping soothed; gorgeous shoes healed.

Had she known Clint intended to take her to The Night Crawler, she might have spared herself the entire ordeal, except for the shoes. She looked down from the high stool and rotated her ankle admiringly. Definitely except for the shoes.

Clint cleared his throat, raising his voice enough to be heard over the Sisters of Mercy’s cover of “Gimme Shelter.” “Is it always this dead in here?”

“Assuming you’re referring to the level of activity rather than the decor’s intent, it’s only nine-thirty.” Cayden shrugged carefully in the tight corset. “Nothing much happens before midnight.”

He gave her a small half-smile. “Oh, is that when the undead join us?” The smile was quickly replaced with a cute frown. “Seriously, though, are you sure you’re not hungry? We could go somewhere to eat and come back.”

They’d had this conversation in his truck on the way here. Clint had felt the need to make certain that by setting the date for nine, Cayden had intentionally passed on dinner, which she had, knowing she’d be too nervous to choke down food. She guessed he’d hedged his bets and eaten lightly.

“No thanks. If you’re hungry, we can order a snack from the bar. The wings are decent.”

He flipped open the menu and skimmed it. “What, the Crows’ Wings? Sure that won’t bother you?” His grin, somewhere between uncertain and teasing, could be lethal to her management of the situation.

“They’re chicken. Better those than the house specialty. Between the way they shape it and the consistency of warm mozzarella, it resembles its namesake a bit too realistically. The Bloody Little Bones are real ants, though, dipped in a sort of red licorice. They’re actually quite delicious.”

His smile barely flickered. “Crows’ Wings it is, and another beer. Can I get you another Virgin’s uh…?”

He might have blushed. The light was too dim to be certain.

“Virgin’s Passion.”

When he stumbled over the name of her drink again while placing their order, Cayden waited until the server had gone before taking the opportunity to tease him.

“Which is it that bothers you, Clint, ‘virgin’ or ‘passion?’” She let each word come from low in her throat as she leaned over to whisper in his ear while the corset’s abbreviated cups effortlessly graced him with an excellent view of her cleavage.

She didn’t need to see him blush; his heated skin heightened his scent. Her own body’s immediate response unsettled her. She forced herself to sit back, pretending to wait for an answer while she tugged the straw with her lips and recomposed herself.

He swallowed thickly and stammered, “Wh-What’s in it?”

“It’s a raspberry daiquiri sans rum.” In a bid to press her precarious advantage, she gave him a sultry smile and shrugged less carefully. Little of his sea-colored irises remained as his eyes tracked the movement of her nearly-bared breasts. The air between them crackled. The houselights flickered. Her traitorous pounding heart told her that some time in the last few seconds, she’d morphed from dragon lady to prey.

Clint coughed and shifted in his chair. He shoved one of his long-fingered hands through his sandy hair as if trying to make it stand up like it usually did. Apparently, he had better luck with his libido, because he cleared his throat and said the last thing she expected.

“Let me get this straight. You don’t smoke, you don’t swear—even when it’s called for—and you don’t drink alcohol. You have a mostly-hidden tat and the only piercings I can see are those in your ears. Since there’s a half-dozen in each, I guess I’ll give you that one. Really, though, what kind of goth girl are you?”

Instead of giving in to his baser instincts as he was meant to, Clint MacAllen was genuinely trying to figure her out. She liked it, which was bad. It tempted her to believe he might care about her. Time to rally.

“Perhaps you should be asking what kind of
woman
I am, without the preconceived judgments you’ve attached to your concept of goth. However, in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t swear because I believe words have power. I don’t drink because I consider it unhealthy. You need not be curious in regard to additional piercings or tats. While the one I have is extensive, it’s symbolic rather than decorative. I have no need to inflict pain upon my body. Or don’t you think it deserves that degree of respect?”

“Hold it.” He pushed his chair back from the table and held up his hands. Naturally, his feet could reach the floor from his stool, unlike hers. “That’s not what… I didn’t mean… Of course you…your body…deserves… Damn it, the last thing I meant to do was offend you. I’m only trying to—”

“Put me into a slot. I’m too round for any of your square holes, Clint.”

“What if I happen to find round damn tempting?” he shot back, low and loud. He followed the comment with a deliberate visual examination that made her grateful she was sitting down.

Then she remembered Barbie. “Oh really? Since when?”

“Since you.” He bit back again, lower still, not quite as loud.

Clint MacAllen was just a glorified construction worker. He wasn’t supposed to be able to keep up with her. She didn’t like her men feisty, did she? Intelligent, certainly, but feisty apparently made her flash hot and cold, mostly hot. She resisted the urge to fan herself with the menu.

“Can’t say much for the service in this place,” he groused to no one in particular when she did her best to ignore him. Despite her efforts, he must have realized he’d gained the advantage, because the next thing he said after eyeing the empty dance floor was, “I bet the waitress will bring our order as soon as the DJ plays something someone could dance to.”

As though on cue, the first piano chords of “My Immortal” by Evanescence flowed plaintively through the speakers.

“Mmm, a slow one. Who’s got magic now?”

He drained his beer, got up, and offered her a cocky grin and his hand.

She offered him a token resistance. “It’s not really goth music, you know.”

“Who cares? Who’s pigeonholing now?”

By then, Amy Lee’s haunting voice, along with the warmth of Clint’s hand, had pulled her onto the dance floor and into his arms. Her cheek was pressed against his broad chest. One of his large, rough hands scorched the bare ribbon of skin on her lower back, the other enfolded her uninjured shoulder. He smelled like soap, sun, sandalwood, and something powerfully male and arousing.

They moved easily together for two people whose heights were so disparate. He shouldn’t want to dance, much less be so masterly. She shouldn’t be allowing him to guide her with his strength, to turn her into a boneless puddle unable to stand if he weren’t holding her up. And she most certainly shouldn’t want it to go on forever.

Cayden had drunk alcohol before, once. She’d hated feeling intoxicated even more than feeling sick the next day. This felt similar, except only her brain was numb. Her body was super-sensitive, every nerve ending sending her a message. The same message. She couldn’t bring herself to hate this kind of intoxication, though nothing should feel this sublime.

That was her last coherent thought. Clint tucked her in closer, shifted a beefy thigh against her hammy one, turned her around and around, led her back and forth. “My Immortal” segued into a slow song she didn’t bother to recognize, then another. The ache of desire grew sharper, stronger.

When the music changed to a faster beat, she felt like she’d been jerked out of a wicked good dream. The disappointment was nearly painful. The distance from where she’d been to where she stood now—staring dumbly at Clint through clouds of dry-ice fog while trying to think straight, or just stand up by herself—was too far to bridge from one moment to the next.

She somehow succeeded in excusing herself and teetered off to the ladies’ room. Cayden stared into the mirror while running cold water over her wrists in the sink below. She would have splashed her face had it not meant redoing her makeup. Her small black beaded reticule was still around her wrist, so she compromised by patting cool water on her cheeks with a paper towel, followed by freshening her lipstick. Her breathing had steadied, her brain having used the ritual to regain control. Returned to its rightful position, it scolded her soundly, leaving her chastised, defensive, and faintly irritated.

Clint took longer making it back to their table than he should have. He could have blamed his daze on the fog machine—had tried once his brain had finally came up for air—but that wasn’t it. It was the Cayden Effect. He’d better get used to it if he intended to keep dating her. That, and uncontrollable erections.

The voicemail she’d left had more than stunned him. It had turned him inside out, made him go goddamn clothes shopping
and
skip his biweekly haircut, in case Bill’s daughter knew what she was talking about. Hell, Trina had to know more about fashion than he did.

He’d replayed Cayden’s message at least twenty times, just to hear the sexy timbre of her voice. Listening to it also made it easier to tell himself he’d imagined last week’s teeming strangeness. Hell, that apartment of hers would set anyone’s imagination running, same as her taste in clothes, the way her skin glowed, and the way it felt even silkier than it looked.

Damn, he’d better get hold of himself before she returned. She messed up his head so badly, he’d almost blown the date twice already. He’d never been good at talking to women. He hadn’t needed to be. Since his junior year in high school, his affiliations and looks had done his talking for him. He understood that they worked against him with Cayden; they made her distrustful. She didn’t merely look different than the women he’d known, she
was
different. She was smarter, more talented, a whole lot sexier, and far less predictable.

He eyed the food and beverages on their table ruefully. The wings looked delicious, and he could
really
use that beer. But the waitress had brought them while he and Cayden were on the dance floor. No way was he consuming anything that had been sitting here at the table for anyone to do anything to. He’d finished his beer before leaving the table, as always. Some lessons should never be forgotten…

The party had been the first Clint had attended that included both alcohol and girls. He hadn’t been nearly old enough for either one. He’d had no idea why he was been invited. He’d been too thrilled to worry about it.

His first beer had tasted bitter, but it had made it easier to talk to the girls. It had also made him have to piss real bad. He’d left his second bottle half-full on the coffee table when he’d gone to search for a bathroom. His first sip after he returned had tasted funny, which he’d mentioned to the senior sitting next to him. The guy had laughed, slammed him on the back, and asked whether he wanted a girlie drink. He downed the beer.

He’d never discovered what drug or combination of drugs they’d spiked it with. From the time it hit him until the next morning, he remembered little other than distorted fun-house faces laughing, flashes of sharp recurring physical pain, sharper humiliation, his own voice begging, and crawling, lots of crawling—crawling on carpet, crawling on polished wood, crawling over cement, grass, and mud—and through it all, laughter. From the condition of his hands and knees, and his torn and bloody jeans when he woke up, he must have crawled home. For once, he’d been grateful his parents had to work so hard, because it made them sleep just as hard. As far as he knew, he’d managed to creep in without waking them. Neither one ever said a word about that night, other than his mom chiding him gently for having to patch his jeans again.