Six rules undying book 2, p.14
Six (Rules Undying Book 2), page 14
Oh, I hope they are gonna give him the tour because it would be a crime not to see this one, girls.”
Paige rubbed her temples and tried to slow down her breathing.
The smell grew stronger until Paige wrapped her feet as tightly as she could around the base of her chair, trying to fight the squirm as distractingly delicious chills shook her belly. She kept biting her lip as more and more inappropriate work thoughts filled her brain.
“Hey, Paige, you OK?”
Paige jumped in panic, sending titters of laughter around the department. A few of her curls had broken free, and somehow her second button had come undone as well. She smiled weakly and said, “Just in my own little world—sorry!”
Marcy laughed wickedly at her coworker’s very bright cheeks.
“Overactive imagination, perhaps?” she asked. “Oh, you have to see this—”
Marcy trailed off as the conference room door swung open.
Every woman in the room watched in awe as their requisite slimy young salesman walked out into the main office with a huge professionally whitened smile on his spray-tanned face. It wasn’t Eric’s charming but barely concealed hair plugs nor his dazzling pink tie that made the ladies pause; it was the six feet two inches of blond-haired, blue-eyed, all-American beefcake that sauntered out behind him.
The stranger gave a sly smile to the gawking gaggle of ladies.
As Marcy had so colorfully described, he had a rugged Hollywood leading-man style of face, with perfectly trimmed ginger-tinted blond stubble on his cheeks, and he filled out his blazer and designer jeans so well it made the married women blush. His only flaw was a bit of a crook in his nose, but even that added a sort of rugged charm to his naturally tanned face.
“Wow, Eric looks orange today,” Marcy muttered.
Paige shifted uncomfortably in her seat again as the visitor gave her a little wink. He whispered something in the salesman’s ear, and Eric burst into a fit of giggles. “When we get lunch later, I’ll tell you all about it, man,” was all Paige could make out of the salesman’s pitch.
Just when Paige thought she couldn’t squirm anymore, a second figure emerged from the shadow of the larger-than-life client.
Paige audibly gasped as she saw slicked-down dirty-blond hair, Coke-bottle glasses, and a pressed plaid shirt tucked into regulation khaki trousers. In fact, she was so busy gawking at the geek that she didn’t even notice the shadow looming over her desk.
“Paige?”
She jumped again as her boss just shook his head. He then plopped a new pile of expense reports into her overflowing inbox.
“We just did a big round of networking in Illinois; see that everyone gets paid on time for a change,” he sighed.
She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her as the most intense wave of the smell flooded her nose.
“Oh, Paige,” Eric the sales guy said in his most over-the-top eager Southern drawl, “would you mind being a peach and getting a couple of waters for our guests? We’ve been talking business for a while.”
Mr. Roach gave Eric a look. “Where is Betty?”
“Well, Mr. Wolfe did specifically ask about our Paige here.
Never hurts to give a client what they want, Rich.”
“Go ahead, Paige,” Mr. Roach sighed.
“This guy is a buyer for construction sites all the way from Minneapolis to St. Louis—chop-chop!” Eric added as Paige slowly eased out of her seat.
She kept her eyes low as she slipped past the other cubes and offices. Her hands shook as she grabbed two cold bottles out of the stash in the fridge marked For Clients. She hustled back to the main administrative office, where the two blond strangers strolled along the aisle while Eric continuously talked about one thing or another.
Paige kept her head down, trying to study the carpet even as she reached out with water. The first bottle disappeared without a fuss
into the long, skinny fingers of the other guy in the room trying to avoid attention.
“You OK, sweetheart?” a very deep voice asked as she felt a tug on the other water bottle. “Don’t worry; I’m not gonna bite.”
Paige dared to look at the hand holding the top of the bottle.
Time stood still as she saw a distinctive half-moon pattern of scars across the back of his hand. She froze completely, holding on to the bottom of the bottle in a death grip.
“Irvine Wolfe,” the stranger said. “It’s a genuine pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Carmichael. I know your dad, after all.”
“Oh, you know the professor?” Eric said, fighting to be relevant in the conversation. “I’ve watched him on UFO Week—”
“Nice to finally meet you too, Mr. Wolfe,” Paige said, still keeping her eyes lowered. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to work.”
“Why don’t you take the tour with us, dear? After all, your dad is the reason we even came out here for this call.”
She looked back desperately to Mr. Roach, who had already put on his plastic client-facing mask. He said, “Oh, this can wait. Why don’t you help Eric show them around?”
“Come with me,” Irvine said. The moment the words left his lips, she automatically moved to his side and started following like a dutiful little puppy. “That’s better, dear. This here is my accountant, Morgan. I’m sure you two have a lot in common.”
The accountant nodded curtly. At this distance she could clearly see that he was the same schlubby geek who had stalked her at a supermarket café. Luckily, Eric talked enough for the four of them and expounded on every sales trend for the past five years, as well as described the new and exciting line of synthetic flanges and other odor-reducing plastics.
By the time they reached the sales floor, all of them had been educated on the very best barbecue in the area and on maggot control. Paige occasionally looked over at the annoyed-looking accountant, who kept scratching the razor burn under his chin, but he remained inscrutable behind the thick lenses.
Eric invited his guests to look out at the pretty atrium in the building, and as soon as they were clear, he yanked Paige’s arm and hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me that your dad knew some big-time builders? We could have used this sale last quarter.”
“I’ve never met these people before in my life,” she hissed back.
“Well, damn, just work your charm on them. We are talking seven-figure potential here if this works out,” he said.
“What do you want me to do exactly?” she hissed.
Eric gave her a look. “You know, your charms. Let’s take them out to lunch—”
Paige’s jaw dropped. “What next? Take them back to a motel?”
she snapped. She raised her voice up to normal level. “I think I really should be heading back. Expense reports don’t pay themselves,”
she said as cheerily as she could manage. The open airflow of the lobby had dispersed much of the smell, and she could finally hold her head up without fear of being completely red-faced.
Irvine smiled warmly. “I really think we should catch up after these meetings, hon. You know what, Mr. Clark—”
“Please, call me Eric.”
“Well, Eric, I think you and me should keep talking business. Do you think Paige here can take my accountant back to the conference room to start going over those numbers?”
“I’d be glad to,” Paige said. “Please follow me, Mr.—”
“Wolfe, Morgan Wolfe,” the accountant muttered.
“Are you two—?” Paige asked.
“He’s my uncle,” Morgan muttered. “We should go.”
Paige quietly led him back to the conference room. The moment they were back within the tight, poorly ventilated space, the crushing tide of pheromones came washing over Paige. The lumpy stranger only had to brush her arm to send a spasm from her chest into her guts.
“It’s you,” she whispered as she slapped herself back to reality.
“What are you doing to me?” she growled under her breath.
Morgan quickly shut the door. He yanked off his glasses to reveal eyes too bright blue to be human. His hands shook, and he looked furtively over each shoulder.
“What am I doing to you?” he asked, matching her guttural growl. “What are you doing to me?”
“What?”
A second later she was slammed against the drywall. She felt his lips pressed against hers, but otherwise her body was numb. She clawed the ponytail holder out of his hair and groaned as she could taste that same heavenly smell and bacon on his tongue. For a moment they simply sucked face with abandon until she finally shoved him away with shocking force. In their brief tussle, she had managed to untuck his shirt, revealing what looked like a padded suit underneath.
“No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” Paige said.
“Irvine warned me, but I didn’t think it could happen,” Morgan growled out. His voice seemed incapable of anything but a Batman-worthy guttural tone. The blond stranger fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a syringe. Paige gasped as she saw a sinister-looking liquid drip from the tip.
“I’ll scream,” she warned.
Her fears were unfounded as Morgan jabbed the needle into his own arm and took a few wheezing, labored breaths. “Ketamine—
want some?”
Paige’s lip quivered as she shook her head. “What is going on?”
she choked out.
Morgan slicked his hair back and picked up his glasses. Paige tried to focus on his nebbish exterior and terrible, product-laden hair rather than the entirely too pleasant taste on her lips.
“Hormones,” he choked out. “Lots of hormones.”
Paige leaned against the wall and clutched her chest. “Can you stop . . . smelling the way you do?” she asked desperately.
“Can you?” he snapped right back.
“Are you ‘Mr. Wolf’ or is your uncle?” Paige asked. “Where’s my father?”
“He’s hiding.”
“What is he hiding from?”
Morgan winced in pain and grabbed his arm. “Can’t talk right now. You’ve only got a day or two left,” he growled. “Maybe even a
few hours.”
“What? What do you mean?” she hissed.
Morgan grabbed her hand. The moment his skin touched hers, they both shivered. “Really hard to concentrate,” he muttered. “Go home. Avoid people. We will find you tonight.”
“What?”
“Go home!” he barked.
Paige straightened her collar and hustled back to her desk. A few of the other girls stared at her disheveled hair and flushed face and muttered comments. She looked at her never-ending mountain of papers, her cascades of e-mails, and the annoying orange stapler foisted on her by her boss. This time she felt the shadow looming over her as she grabbed her purse.
“Just where do you think you are going, Miss Carmichael?” her boss asked in his most condescending and irritating tone.
“Home,” she said as she flipped off her computer. “And you know what, Mr. Roach? I’m not coming back—ever.”
He may have responded, but she was too busy hurrying to her car to care. Once in the relative safety of her Civic, tears started rolling down her cheeks. “I’m an angry, hungry slut,” she chastised her reflection before tearing out of the parking lot.
Even midmorning Memphis traffic afforded her plenty of time to bawl and stew in her car. She tried playing her deepest and most mellow ambient tracks to calm down, but by the time she returned to Cordova, she looked like a leading lady in a Lifetime movie of the week.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ll just tell him I’m sorry.
I’ll tell Cal the truth. I’ll tell him everything—” Her words trailed off as she saw an unfamiliar white sports car parked in the spot right in front of her apartment.
The windows were cracked on the late model coupe, allowing Paige a chance to smell an all-too-familiar scent wafting from the pink zebra-striped fuzzy seat cushions. “No,” Paige whispered as she drew closer. Every breath she took only reinforced her fears.
She slowly approached her door and pressed her ear to it. She was rewarded by a rhythmic pattern of squeaking springs interspersed
with grunts and chipmunk noises, all poorly concealed by some pop singer wailing like a dying cat on the radio.
She ran back to the white car. Paige snarled as she kicked the front tire over and over. The sickening smell of cheap perfume and Old Spice deodorant brought fresh tears to her eyes. She slammed her fist down on the hood and watched in horror as the metal caved under her touch.
“Oh god,” she moaned before running to her car. Somehow she pulled it together enough to drive out of the complex and find her way heading west on Poplar Avenue. She pulled into the parking lot of one of the ubiquitous strip malls and ran straight for the darkened entrance of Mayweather’s Pub. Her rage rose as she read the bright red and black “Sorry, We’re Closed,” on the door. The secondary sign made her howl: “Closed Mondays.”
She slumped to the concrete walk and pulled out her phone.
Her fingers shook as she managed to hit the second name on her contacts list.
“Mom?” she whimpered as soon as someone picked up.
“Paige, sweetie, are you all right?”
“Mom, I’m having a really, really bad day.”
A few hours later, Paige curled up on a comfortable, familiar sofa, while the aroma of Parmesan, chicken, and broccoli drifted over from her mother’s kitchen. She picked at the frayed ends of her socks, which had somehow chosen this day of all days to fall apart and let her toes poke through. She had changed from her work clothes into an old T-shirt and sweatpants, and she kept trying to distract herself by watching cooking shows or leafing through one of her mother’s pile of Gourmet magazines on the coffee table.
“Want to talk about it, sweetie?” Maria asked as she brought over a glass and the rest of the bottle of Chianti.
“Not really, Mom,” she sighed. “You can say, ‘I told you so,’
though.”
“You walked in on—”
“I’m kind of glad I heard it before I saw anything that I’d never be able to unsee. I mean she wore so much perfume that I could
smell it on him. He said it was deodorant but—”
Maria just scooped her daughter in a hug. “You know what I always say, love,” she sighed.
“Men are assholes?” Paige asked.
“Yup; most of them have only one thing on their mind, and it isn’t pretty. Oh baby, if I run into him, I’m going to—”
“Don’t, Mom. I’ll yell at him myself when I’m ready. Right now I just want to hide and eat a lot of pasta. Can we do that?”
“Of course.”
They spent the next hour talking about the food, the unseasonably warm recent weather, and how the business was going. Paige texted Cal with a vague, “Staying at Mom’s tonight,”
and tried her best to just sink into the upholstery and a glass of wine.
Paige leaned against her mom’s shoulder, closed her eyes, and finally started to relax. Her mom ruffled her curls and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t worry, kiddo. We’re DeMarcos at heart. We can handle anything,” Maria said softly.
“Thanks, Mom,” Paige murmured as she drifted off to sleep.
- 9 -
Paige fluttered her eyelids as she could smell smoke in the air. She lurched to a sitting position as the sofa had morphed into a mattress of straw and a fuzzy microfiber blanket had transformed into a wolf pelt. “No, no, no,” she whimpered as she once more found Lorcan lying next to her.
“Some of us are trying to sleep here,” the Irishman muttered.
“Where am I?” Paige asked. A few embers flickered across the room, tiny specks of light in the crushing darkness. All she could clearly see was the pale, bare shoulder of Lorcan Darcy.
“You’re in a dream, Paige,” Lorcan sighed. “Isn’t that obvious?”
She yanked his shoulder. He grumbled and rolled over, his eyes back to the insanely bright green. “Why are you in my dreams?” she asked.
“The better question is, why can you see me in your dreams?”
he asked. “Maybe you see me because you want to see me.”
“What is happening to me? Why am I here in this place? Why are we naked?”
“I always sleep naked,” Lorcan said as he stretched his arms and rested them behind his head. “If I can.”
“And me?”
“Memories aren’t like watching a movie, Paige. Memories are chemical patterns burned into neurons. They are strong when tied to certain sensations and feelings. We remember tastes, smells, touches—” he said, giving her a longing glance.
“So this is just some crazy sex dream of mine?”
“Or of mine,” Lorcan offered. “I can’t even be sure if this is you inside me or a part of me inside you at this point. Am I your figment, or are you mine?”
Paige ran her fingers through the fur. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate just on that singular sensation. “Why am I dreaming this?” she whispered.
She felt hands on her shoulders, fingers gently probing and exploring the tight muscles around her neck, and then warm breath against her shivering spine. She held her own breath as Lorcan whispered in her ear, “You’re dreaming this because your conscious self can’t handle the truth.”
“And why do these dreams feel so real?”
“Maybe they are memories,” he said softly. She let him slowly kiss the back of her neck while his hands wrapped around her waist.
“Memories tied to a strong emotion.”
She felt a stab in her throat, a moment of pain. The smell of embers changed into a mix of decomposing trash and gasoline, and as she opened her eyes, she could finally see exactly where she was, pressed against the cement wall of a strip mall. She groaned as the pain faded into something far more pleasurable, and she could feel every inch of Lorcan Darcy pressed against her. She tilted her head back and wrapped her legs around his hips as she felt the rush radiate from her neck into her brain. He obliged by pressing against her closer, moaning as the blood rushed through his fangs and into his core. He began to tremble more and more. She could feel her blood trickling down her neck and over her breasts. She could now smell musk and sweat and coppery aromas as one of his hands slid along her thigh ever so slowly.
