Ultimate Passage: New Beginnings: Box Set ( Books 1-4) (7 page)

I
t was
as if suddenly everything was better. Except, the room was spinning. Okay, so maybe not everything. And her tummy wanted to spew its contents. Which for now were purely liquid.
So much for a liquid diet.
But at least this guy wasn’t one of the enemies. That would have sucked. She didn’t want to dwell on why it would have sucked. That would mean dwelling on something else. But who wanted another enemy when things were as bad as they were?

Could he be the answer to a problem? A job? Ugh.
Get it together, Marissa. You still have Two West Two.
Really? She wanted to rail at the whisper in her head.
I won’t in ten days. If I don’t come up with a plan I won’t have enough capital to open up another restaurant.
Her head started to pound, thinking of it all. She wanted a drink, or twelve. Not to think about the future; to slip into a nice, inebriated little state. One where she didn’t need to deal with life for a few hours.

He had to follow her here, just had to, didn’t he? And now she was thinking about everything, and suddenly she wanted to drink more. She raised her glass to the bartender and nodded.

Then she saw it. Was that for real? In the reflection of the mirror, this guy—Finn, and what kind of name was
Finn
, anyway?—was shaking his head at the bartender, as if he could tell him not to make her another drink. She was a grownup, dammit. Who the hell did he think he was?

She turned to him so fast her head felt like it was going to pull a Linda Blair move. And never stop spinning. She placed her fingertips on her temples but still the room was swimming. Or maybe she was swimming. Wait, that wasn’t possible.

“I don’t feel so good. Why are you here again? Are you my guardian angel? Wait, wait. Angels have wings. You don’t—” She pushed his stool, trying to swivel it, pretending to look for wings.

But his face changed. It went from sexy and sweet to—

Aloof.

Forbidding.

Like he was someone different altogether.

She drew back. Something was wrong. He jerked away, returned his seat to facing her. “Don’t be silly.”

“Jeez. It’s a joke. Aren’t you overreacting a little?” She reached for her drink. The glass was empty. She hunted for the bartender, but he was gone, before he’d gotten her a refill. How convenient.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am your wingless guardian angel. Don’t you think you should let me take care of you if I am?”

“Um, no. You’re still a stranger, guardian angel or not.”

The seat felt like it was spinning. Or maybe it was the room. Whatever it was, the flavor of Kahlua and cream flowed in her throat, but very definitely from the wrong direction. White Russians didn’t taste as good coming back up. She swallowed the liquid down.

No. No. No. That was the wrong thing to do. Now it was worse. Her stomach heaved. A glance up confirmed that Finn was watching her, concern on his face. She turned away from him. If she didn’t, she’d—

God, too late. Just as she turned away, six White Russians projectile-erupted from her mouth. In her peripheral vision she caught his jump backward, and his barstool flipped, clipping hers just right.

Marissa tumbled to the floor, vomit cascading around her. She slipped on the nasty, grimy, chunky floor and landed right on her ass.

M
arissa
, the human firebrand, was vomiting a white-ish concoction in his direction. He made a swift flip out of her way, but he didn’t count on his barstool tipping, or knocking hers over. He sure didn’t count on her falling down and her own vomit pelting her.

She sat on the floor, this forlorn, former firebrand, lost, covered in her own vomit, miserable. Pitiful.

Now what? Fueled by alcohol, and embarrassment, what would her temper lead her to do? He paused, waiting for her reaction. The other thing he hadn’t counted on—

A flood of tears burst from her eyes, while her face maintained no emotion at all. This woman was beyond confusing. He leaned in, hoping she’d accept his help.

Help? Help her do what? What could he do? The only way to give this woman help would be to throw her in a bathtub. Preferably one filled with cold water to shock the alcohol’s effects out of her body and bring her to her senses. What could he say that would make anything better? Nothing. So he put his hand out to help her up.

She stared at his hand like it was a cobra.

What was wrong with her? “Let me help you.”

“I’m beyond help.” The snot dribbling from her nose merged with the tears.

He was happy she was too drunk—hopefully too drunk—to remember the sight she was. With luck, tomorrow morning she wouldn’t have any inkling of this performance.

And why did that matter, anyway? In a short time, she’d become a part of the mission to help his people.

What would they do to her? Or to any of the women? What exactly happened once they were in Asazi custody? He should have asked. Why? Why would he have asked? It wasn’t his business. His assignment was to bring them in. He wasn’t a scientist. But now, suddenly, this woman made him want to know. To know that she’d be okay. To know that she wouldn’t come to harm. To know she’d still be that human spitfire, not a corpse. Or even an incubator.

What was wrong with him? Why did he care? Was it the human genomes in his body that made him care? Or was it the fact he’d taken on a human appearance? What was going on? He leaned back, fighting to keep his confusion, and concern, from showing on his face.

“Hey, bud.” The bartender was back and tugging on Finn’s sleeve. “She’s a nice lady, and a good tipper and all that.” His face grew concerned as he looked down at Marissa. “But you’re going to have to... well, she’s drunk. You’re going to have to take your girlfriend out of here.”

“She’s not—” Before Finn could say
She’s not my girlfriend
, the bartender raised his hand in the universal
Halt
gesture.

“She is drunk. She’s definitely drunk.”

That wasn’t what Finn was going to dispute. A person would have to be deaf, blind, and have no sense of smell to dispute that Marissa was drunk. He nodded in agreement.

The bartender continued. “She’s going to cause me trouble with the law.”

“How so?” This was out of Finn’s area of expertise.

“Public intoxication, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. What I need you to do is get her out of here.”

“I don’t think she can walk, and her house is quite a distance away.”

“Yeah, man, I called a cab for her.”

That seemed to settle the matter. Finn lifted her, cradled her head under his chin, and held his breath so he wouldn’t have to inhale the combination of cream, Kahlua, vodka, and stomach bile. “Let’s go, Marissa, honey.” That was for the benefit of the bartender, since Finn was going to be taking her home... or was he? At least he had to go along with the bartender’s theory that he was her boyfriend. He carried her to the door, the bartender flicked the knob, and Finn kneed it open the rest of the way. Sure enough, a cab was waiting outside.

Seeing Finn, the cabbie came around and opened the door. “I’ve been here a few minutes. The meter’s been running.” His accent was thick, his smile broad and even-toothed under a knit cap.

“Thanks. No problem. I understand about the meter.”

Marissa moaned but didn’t open her eyes as he set her in the seat, careful not to jostle her too much, and still very careful not to breathe in too deeply. That odor—not pleasant.

“Where to, brother?” The cabbie looked in the rearview mirror.

Luckily Finn had no problem remembering her address. Good thing he’d taken this seriously and had learned the details in her file. “1483 Feather Hollow.”

The cabbie put the car in gear and nosed it out of the parking lot. And still Marissa gave no indication of waking up. She was out for the whole trip. Not a long trip, less than twenty minutes’ drive to leave that area of town and progress to a part that was better kept up. A whole lot better kept up. Suburbia, pretty much.

En route, Finn took her keys out of her purse and pocketed them. It’d make opening a door easier if he didn’t have to dig through the purse while carrying a passed-out-Marissa to her front doorstep. He paid the driver, tipped him well, took Marissa out.

The door yielded to the key without issue, but he didn’t push it open. He stopped to listen, to be sure there wasn’t a dog. The last thing he needed was to have to fend off—or worse, kill—her dog. That’d be hell to explain to her when she came to, later. Explanations would be the easy part. The hate she’d have for him—that was something he didn’t want to think of.

He waited a full three minutes. Scuffled a little, made some noise. No barking, no growling, no canine toenails skittering on wood or tile. Finn pushed the door open and was greeted by a small lamp’s light. Thankfully because otherwise, he’d have tripped over the pile of junk that sat just to the left of the door, almost barring his entrance. “Damn, it’s an obstacle course,” he muttered under his breath.

Marissa shifted in his arms. “What?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

“Dad? Daddy?”

He froze. Her father had died about two years ago. Her file said so, and he doubted it wasn’t accurate. So why was she calling out to her dad? “Shhh. Just rest.” He pressed her face closer to his chest. Just a couple minutes longer and he could put her in her own bed and—

And what? What after that, genius? Wait until morning? Wait until she wakes up, crusty from her own vomit and—

And then she’d never want to talk to him again. She’d be mortified, ashamed, embarrassed. He knew that already. He knew her. He couldn’t have her waking up and finding herself a mess, then finding out he’d brought her here, that he’d seen her at her lowest.

He’d have to do something. Make it seem like she’d come home, changed, something, anything, but he couldn’t let it look like he’d seen her in this condition.

No problem. You’re a soldier. Surely you can handle this.
Her chest rose in a sleep-sigh, her breasts pushing tight against her clothing.

He shouldered a couple of doors open, then finally found her master bedroom. He placed her on the bed, secured a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom, moistened it with some warm water, and, using the light cast by the bathroom, he unbuttoned her wet, messy top. Between the vomit, the chunks, and what looked like she’d had a red sauce food fight during lunch, the shirt deserved a fiery funeral. He balled it up and tossed it in a corner.

In the dim lighting, her flesh glowed, tan with white lines from a swimsuit. A lacy contraption—a bra, that much he remembered—covered half her breasts, leaving little to the imagination. Her nipples pressed against the filmy fabric. He sucked a breath in as quietly as he could. Her breasts rose, fell, rose, fell with every inhale and exhale. He found his own breathing matching hers as he stared at her, transfixed by the creamy, glowing skin. His shoulders ached, and he knew why. Damned wings. Damned humans.

The bra was wet. Leave her in it or...?

He rummaged through a few drawers and found an oversized T-shirt. Rolling her to her side, he unhooked the contraption holding her breasts hostage then tugged it off. It felt like a bayonet was being driven through his gut. Her curves invited him, and he raised his hand, lowered it. He couldn’t. No. This couldn’t happen.

Taking the washcloth, he ran its warmth moistness over her neck, her chest and just over the curve of her breast. As he passed it over her nipple, it turned stiff. He let his thumb touch it. Damnation, he couldn’t help himself. He swallowed the thickness that had accumulated in his throat, and adjusted the discomfort growing in his pants. Her nipple pressed back against his thumb. He wanted to taste it. Vomit, sweat, all of that be damned.

He leaned in, imagining the texture in his mouth. Imagining its response to his sucking.

She gasped, took a deep breath and rolled over onto her side.

Saved. To think he was going to—

He shook his head, as if that would clear it. As if that would make a difference. Fool. Foolish human blood in his body. He stood and paced. Now what? Now?

It’s fine,
he reassured himself.
She doesn’t know. She knows nothing. She
—

All he had to do was put her shirt on her, cover her, go to her couch, and go to sleep. She’d wake up in the morning and be none the wiser. She’d assume she’d dressed herself and that he was the perfect chaperone.

He slipped the T-shirt over her body, covered her and slipped out, leaving the door cracked open. Then he leaned against the wall just outside the door, and stared out the window at the moonless, cloudless sky.

What am I doing? What have I done?

What was I going to do?

H
er head felt
like it was going to explode. She knew that feeling. Knew it well, though it had been forever since she’d last felt it. Marissa groaned and pulled the pillow over her face. The sun. Brutal! The night before was a dim fog of a memory, but she knew she’d gone to Hush last night. She’d—

Marissa bolted upright.

Finn.

She scanned her bed. There definitely weren’t any signs of a wild, passionate night. Or a hot guy.

What was she thinking? She wasn’t the type. She didn’t do stuff like that.
No, not normally
, the voice reminded her.
But he was hot. And you were drunk.
Still, she didn’t—

No, she hadn’t. The room was unoccupied. She was in her night T-shirt, and the other half of the bed was untouched. And she was pretty sure no parts of the bed would have been untouched if he’d been here.

What the hell is wrong with me?
She was acting like a whacked out, hormonal, horny...

She buried her face in the pillow and laughed at herself.

A knock interrupted her.

God. That sounded close. The door crept open. “Marissa?”

Him. Oh. Him. Finn. OhOhOh. Oooooh.

She jerked the sheets up to her neck. “Yes?” Back to the pretty-much-a-croak-while-he-was-around sound. Shit.

“Just checking on you.”

“Oh. I’m—” What the hell was he doing here? “I’m okay. I don’t remember much of last night.”

“No problem. We shared a cab. I stayed to make sure you were okay.” He pushed the door all the way open. “You were under the weather.”

Marissa fought back a laugh at that understatement and at the same time prayed that she hadn’t acted stupid, that she hadn’t done anything embarrassing. And, in the same breath, she fought the urge to stare at him. His hair was tousled. His face had that just right amount of scruff that would leave red marks on her thighs while he—

God. Stop this train of thought. Right now, Marissa Sanchez. Right this moment!

His eyes... Dark, black, the iris and pupils merging into one mysterious black hole that threatened to suck her in.

He was shirtless and had a huge tattoo of a winged—what was that?—on his huge bicep.

Stop. Immediately.

But she didn’t want to stop. She looked out the window, looked at anything she could to keep from looking at this man in rumpled clothes, the man with the bedroom eyes that she wanted to dive into.

“What? What were you saying?” She’d completely lost track of what he’d said.

A glimmer of amusement crinkled his eyes. “I was saying I hope you feel better. I’ll get you breakfast if you like. I presume a lady who owns a restaurant would have a stocked pantry.”

He would lose that bet for the most part, but the part that got her was, how did he know she owned a restaurant?
Quit being paranoid, Marissa. You probably told him last night, while you were too busy drowning your problems instead of handling them.
Or Belle could have.

“Belle! Shit.” Marissa jumped up. “Two West Two. Oh God. I’m such an idiot.” She’d left and... who had run the shift? Who had managed the restaurant? God, she was pathetic. Then she noticed her breasts bouncing in her tee. Her bra? What had happened to it? She didn’t usually take it off. Where? Ah, there it was, at the foot of the bed. She looked away so Finn wouldn’t catch her looking, and she crossed her arms so he wouldn’t notice the bouncing her breasts were doing when she hurled herself up out of the bed.

Then it hit her: Two West Two was going to close in ten days anyway. What did one shift matter? It wasn’t like it was a legacy that she was leaving behind. It would soon be nothing, less than a memory. She turned away so Finn wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.

“Hey.”

“Yeah.” She tried to keep from sounding like she was crying.

His arms were on her shoulders, pulling her close, swiveling her to face him. “Belle called. I answered your phone. Hope that was okay. She said she ran the shift and that everything went smoothly. She said you’re closed today? Every Sunday and Monday? Is that correct?”

“Yeah. And it was pathetically irresponsible for me to do what I did last night. Uncalled for.”

“Based on what I heard from Belle, I’d say, very called for. You’re human, after all.” His tone had an oddness to it when he said that. “Do you have a plan?”

“I guess I’ll put the restaurant supplies and equipment in an auction to see if I can’t raise some money. It won’t be enough to open up another one, but it’ll give me some money to live on until I find another job.”

“Why don’t you get back in bed? I’ll get breakfast and coffee. How do you take it?”

“Cream, lots of it. No sugar. But you don’t have to.” She made to pull away from his hold, but his grasp was firm, not overly so, not forcing her, but like he was a rock she could hold on to.

Then he was gone, and she was alone in her bedroom, and suddenly it felt like the loneliest place in the world. Since when did this guy matter? Since when did his leaving a room leave her empty? What had happened last night? Surely nothing.

She looked at her bra. She usually slept with it on. It was more comfortable that way. She picked it up. Still damp. She didn’t need to put it under her nose to smell the reek of vomit.

Must have taken it off because it was wet and filthy. Had to be.

But still a part of her wondered, even wished.
Wow, you do sound like a girl who needs to get laid.
Now she wanted to tell the voice to fuck off. But what was the point of that?

She brushed her teeth and warmed the water in the shower. That would hit the spot. And make things smell better. After tossing her filthy shirt, bra, night tee, jeans and panties into the hamper, she jumped into the hot water. She closed her eyes and let the water run down her body. The scent of her body gel filled the steamy air as she ran her hands over her breasts. Her nipples hardened under her fingertips. For a moment she thought of Finn, his hands, his mouth. Damn it. What was wrong with her? That was the last thing she needed to be doing right now, thinking of him. She rushed through her shower.