The Shopgirl's Prophecy (Beasts of Vegas Book 1) (17 page)

“No.”

Connor popped the hood and did a quick visual inspection. The battery had been badly jostled. He tightened the bolts with his bare fingers. When he hopped into the driver’s seat and cranked it, the old girl started right up.

“We need to regroup,” he said, slamming the hood into place. “Forget the hospital. Forget UNLV. Get us back to the hotel.”

The girls climbed into the truck, and he followed Ali with his eyes, couldn’t help himself. He fought the urge to take a deep breath through his nose to see how her scent had changed. Nope. Normal men did not sniff girls that way.

She held the passenger door, waiting for him to join her inside the cab. Impossible. After the blood and violence, Connor couldn’t trust himself to be so close to her and not do something criminal. Or at the very least something creepy.

Her lower lip quivered. “Are you all right, or not?”

He wanted to lie. But she would figure it out. Hell, she already had. “I don’t know yet.”

He’d lost his sanity when the infected had spotted Ali. Connor had wanted to destroy him, and not just kill him. No, he’d wanted to smash him to greasy bits until nothing human remained. Because he’d looked at Ali.

He shoved the door closed, and she winced. “I’ll ride in the back this time.”

“What? You never do that,” Roz said.

Connor gave her a look through the window, an I need this kind of look. She snapped her mouth closed.

He hopped into the truck bed, moved some stuff around, and sat with his back against the cab. Roz took off, and he instantly regretted his seating choice. There wasn’t really a barrier between him and Ali’s intoxicating scent. The only thing separating them was a shattered window. Not to mention the copious amount of blood drying on his arms and clothes. And the wind whipping around the truck further stirred things up.

“Son of a bitch.” He ended up hugging the tailgate all the way into Las Vegas.

Chapter Thirteen

Their suite on the Las Vegas Strip looked and smelled better than ever, like a freshly opened toy, but Connor couldn’t focus on the room. Beneath the hoodie he’d thrown on as a cover, he was bathed in blood. Rich, crimson blood. Though Ali had washed her hair and changed clothes, he still smelled the metallic twang on her, too. He dropped his bags and made a beeline for the bathroom.

“I’m taking the first shower,” he announced.

“Why do you get it?” Ali squeaked.

He pushed his way into the bathroom. “Because I have blood on me.”

“Are you hurt?” she questioned.

“No.” Just traumatized.

He turned on the hot water in the shower, and steam curled into the air, collecting against the dark marble tiles. He slipped out of his shirt and stared at the piece of fabric, tracing the edges of every dark bloodstain. He could tear it into strips and eat it like jerky. He could soak it in the sink and lap up the red water like a rabid dog. Who cared if it was infected? Would it make a difference? Could he be double infected?

He tossed the shirt and stepped out of his jeans. He was not an animal, and he wouldn’t behave like one. Because if he gave in to the hunger gnawing at his insides he didn’t know if he could control the downward slide. He’d be a monster forever.

Connor stepped into the shower and braced his hands on the tiled wall. Scalding water streamed over his neck and shoulders, turning pink as it circled the drain. He considered drinking that, too, and it was getting harder to deny what he needed, what nagged at him every minute of the day.

He scrubbed his body raw with a square of towel and a bar of soap, removing every bit of blood, even the muddy gunk from under his fingernails. He watched it disappear down the plumbing, and felt worse than ever. His bones ached. His muscles cramped. His mouth was an arid void.

When he couldn’t stand still for another second, he turned off the water and stepped out. He reached for a folded towel, and his hand shook. Like an addict in withdrawal. He grabbed the towel anyway and dried off with unusual roughness.

It didn’t matter, at this point, how he got the blood. Only important that he get it. And fast. Outside the door, moving around the hotel room, were pints and pints of it pulsing through two trusting females. He wouldn’t have to take much. A small cut on the inside of an elbow. Some sucking. He could feel it, warm and thick, sliding down his throat. He wouldn’t steal enough to injure them, just enough to ease the ache.

Connor growled at his reflection in the mirror. “I won’t hurt them,” he said between gritted teeth. And when the idea didn’t go away, he slammed his fist into the wall beside the sink. Tile and grout crumbled. The pain helped. His mind cleared a little. So, he punched the wall again. Harder.

Slightly calmer, he re-entered the main room with a towel wrapped around his waist, feeling the girls’ eyes on him. Especially Ali’s. Her gaze sizzled over his exposed skin, as if she could read his every foul thought.

“I’m next,” she said, popping off her chair.

“I don’t think so.” Roz beat her to it, blocking the way.

His friend expected him to stand in an ever-shrinking room with Ali, blood in her hair, on the back of her neck, on her clothes? No. Fucking. Way.

“Roz,” Connor said, louder than he’d intended. Both girls paused in mid-scuffle. “Ali gets the next shower.”

“Yes.” Ali rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

“Seriously?” Roz turned on him, hurt feelings practically written across her face. “Why,” she spat, “because she’s blonde and has perfect tits?” She looked suspiciously close to crying. He couldn’t deal with the blood issue—he still smelled it—and Roz’s tears, too. Not today.

“Don’t do this.” He stomped into the first bedroom and yanked on a pair of boxers and some jeans under the towel.

She put her hands on her hips. A bad sign. “Is this so you two can be out here, alone and squeaky clean, while I’m in the bathroom? You gonna make your move?” She said it like it was a bad thing.

So what if he did? Why was he on trial with her all the time? If he wanted to seduce Ali, what was the damned issue? He was a grown man, for Christ’s sake.

Not that Connor would. Because blood, with a capital B, was seducing him. Everything, all of a sudden, was about the blood. He couldn’t even think about making moves, not when he was starving. God, romance was so low on his list of priorities.

Anger bubbled through his veins, just under the surface. He grabbed the gilt, padded chair Ali had vacated, the one retaining a bit of her scent, and flung it against the opposite wall. Wood splintered and cracks split the plaster into capillaries. Roz flinched.

“No, Rozlyn, because she has blood in her hair, and I’m a fucking vampire!”

He narrowed the distance between them, smelling her fear. It didn’t do shit to calm him down. If anything, it made him worse.

“Don’t yell at me.” Her voice wobbled the tiniest bit. “You didn’t used to…before she came along.”

She held his gaze for a moment and, to her benefit, she didn’t let a single tear fall. “I’m going out.” Grabbing her bag, she left in a whirl of dark hair and jasmine-scented lotion.

“Son of a bitch,” Connor swore, banging his forehead against the wall, relishing the pain that spiked across his skull.

#

Ali closed and locked the door behind her before taking in the spacious bathroom. It was just as over-the-top luxurious as the rest of the suite with marble tile, a whirlpool tub on a pedestal, and a stand-alone shower big enough for three. Maybe four.

The only flaw in the place was a pockmark in the tile wall roughly the size of Connor’s fist. She ran her fingers over the fractured marble.

Connor’s scent was everywhere, hanging in the steamy air and clinging to the feathery soft towels. As Ali dragged her filthy clothing off her body, she grew more and more altered on his masculine scent. By the time she stepped under the trio of showerheads, her mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of him. Connor wasn’t twenty feet away, nothing but a flimsy door separating them. The idea of him watching her shower was not an unpleasant little fantasy.

She’d only been naked with one man in her entire life. And once she’d gotten that bit of rebellion out of her system, Ali hadn’t pursued an encore. With anyone. But all bets were off with Connor. Being around him felt different. Her body reacted differently.

As she ran the soapy washcloth over herself, including the row of three stitches on her throat, she pictured home. She’d be there before too much longer, in her own flat, in her own shower, drying off with a clean towel, and climbing into her own pajamas. Not stuck in the desert with an inscrutable new vampire. A day, two at the most, to sort out the Anya mystery, and then she’d be gone.

The truth was, Connor made her nervous in a whole new way. When he did that deep stare thing, her knees weakened. The memory alone had her insides quivering and her lower abdomen humming in appreciation.

Ali so did not need to be having warm, wet fantasies about Connor, no matter how tall he was, or how strong his arms were, or whether she’d saved his life with her bare hands. He would continue with his grisly business, and she would go home. Period. Thoughts about anything more intimate were not only idiotic, but also counter-productive.

The giant flashing warning sign above her head went crazy. If he knew her secret, he’d be disgusted. Her dad certainly had been. She’d be utterly ashamed. All her neat little fantasies would rot away to nothing the moment Connor discovered the darkness inside her.

Ali stepped out of the shower stall a human being again. She’d washed off the dirt and blood and overall road grime of the last couple of days, turning the water muddy brown. She combed out her hair to let it air dry against her shoulders and wrapped herself in a fluffy white towel before peeking out the door.

The witch was gone. And Connor was tearing the room, the bags, all their clothes and personal effects apart. A bra hung from a lamp. Books, toothpaste, and tampons were strewn across the bed, and one of the chairs lay in pieces.

“Everything okay?” she ventured, edging into the room, keeping an eye on the only exit.

“No.” He dumped a backpack, scattering the contents. “I need a goddamned mint.” Not finding any, he whipped the empty sack against the balcony doors.

“Oh.” Confused why he’d need candy this badly, she decided it might not be sugar he craved.

Connor turned, a look of utter desperation on his face. “I thought I had one more roll of mints. Have you seen it?” He wore his shirt inside out, his damp hair standing up on the right side.

“Is there gum in the mini bar?” Ali held the towel tight to her breasts and wrestled a pair of Roz’s shorts up her legs. She turned her back to him and pulled on the same cropped top from earlier as quick as she could, not worrying about a bra.

He moved so far into her personal space she smelled his clean, masculine scent before she heard him. She backed into the wall, his wide chest looming over her.

“I need a mint.”

“Distract yourself.”

“I can’t!” He punched the wall next to her head.

Her father’s red, scrunched up face flashed in her mind. That and the back of Dad’s hand against her jaw.

“Don’t.” She waited for a blow, but none landed. Silence. She opened her eyes.

“Someone’s hit you,” Connor said softly.

“Of course not.” Ali scuttled away, pretending to look for shoes, but really she couldn’t focus on sandals, boots, or sneakers. Memories shuffled through her mind like cards in a well-worn deck. Getting hit in the face, pinched on the back of the arm. And that look—utter disgust and shame mixed with anger.

“Who hit you?”

“No one.” She pushed her toes into a pair of gunmetal gray flip-flops. All that mattered was no one was going to hit her again. Or worse, make her feel ashamed again. Because Dad was gone.

He tapped his fingers on the table in a rapid staccato. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You didn’t. I’m fine.” He hadn’t done anything except bring up rotten memories. Not his fault. She was ready to let the past go. For good.

With nothing left to do, Ali crossed to the bed, but didn’t sit down. Connor paced in front of her. Back and forth, back and forth.

“I’m so messed up.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I thought I could control myself. But I need…”

Blood
. He didn’t have to say it. They all knew.

“You haven’t yet?”

He shook his head.

Oh God, he must be in so much pain. Why hadn’t he found something to drink? She’d assumed, during those long runs, he’d hunted an animal at the very least. A bunny, a squirrel, a bobcat.

“What are you going to do?” She could feed him. A little bit wouldn’t harm her, but it would steady him until they found a better supply. Ali imagined cutting herself, on her palm maybe, and offering it to him. He’d put his warm, slightly scruffy face to her skin, sink his fangs into her flesh, and suck…

Connor’s hands were fists again. “Who hit you?”

So much for her swooning vampire fantasy. Back to reality.

“My father.” What a relief to say it aloud. For so long he’d been another of her secrets. Since his death, it seemed less important to protect him. Her gaze scanned the disaster zone that had once been a tidy hotel room. “Geez, you’ve made a mess.” She picked up three shirts and stuffed them into a dresser.

“Stop cleaning.” He moved into her eye line. “Did he hit you a lot?”

She closed the drawer. “It’s no big deal, really.” It was obvious by his expression, he wasn’t letting her off that easy. So, she decided to trust him with some of the truth. “He didn’t like unnecessary emotions. Especially crying.” Ali laughed awkwardly. “Oh, he hated crying most of all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It has nothing to do with you. Don’t worry about it.” She crossed into the walk-in closet and knelt to sort a mish-mash pile of shoes and socks. “You have to learn to control this.”

“What if I can’t?”

Ali paired a leather boot with its mate and stood. Roz would say,
You will
. But she wasn’t Roz.

“Then you’re too dangerous to live.”

Connor’s fingers rose up to play with a hole in her shirtsleeve as his gaze drifted over her chest, arms, and exposed midriff, as if he couldn’t stop himself.