Lover At Last

SIXTY-THREE

Trez frowned at the adding machine he’d been punching numbers into. Reaching out for the white tongue of paper that hung over the side of his desk, he tried to see the column of numbers he’d been making.

He blinked.

Rubbed his eyes. Reopened them.

Nope. The shimmering circle in the upper right-hand quadrant of his vision was still there, and it was not a function of glare.

“Fuck…me.”

Shoving the receipts he’d been totaling aside, he looked at his watch, then put his head in his hands. As he squeezed his eyes shut, the aura was still in place, the pattern of interlocking geometrics sparkling with all the colors of the rainbow.

He had about twenty-five minutes before all hell broke loose—and he was not going to be able to dematerialize.

Fumbling for his office phone, he hit the intercom. Two seconds later, Xhex’s voice came out of the speaker, tinnier than usual. Which meant the sensitivity to sound was kicking in.

“Hey, what’s up?” she said.

“I’m getting a migraine. I gotta bounce.”

“Oh, man, that sucks. Didn’t you get one just a week ago?”

Whatever. Not the point. “Can you take over?”

“You need a ride home?”

Yes. “No. I can make it.” He began gathering his wallet, his cell, his keys. “Call me if you need me, ’kay?”

“You got it.”

Trez took a deep breath as he cut the connection and got to his feet. He felt perfectly fine—for the moment. And the good news was, he was no more than fifteen minutes from his apartment—even assuming he hit all red lights. Which would leave him about ten minutes to get into sweats, line up a wastepaper basket and a towel beside his bed, and prepare for total digestive collapse.

Six, seven hours from now? He was going to feel better.

Unfortunately, the here-to-there was going to suck.

On his way to his office’s closed door, he slung his jacket onto his shoulders and braced himself for the music on the far side.

When he stepped out, he walked right into the wall of iAm’s considerable chest.

“Gimme your keys,” was all his brother said.

“You don’t have to—”

“Did I ask you for an opinion?”

“Goddamn Xhex—”

“Right behind your brother,” the female cut in. “And I know you meant that as a compliment.”

“I’m fine,” Trez said, as he tried to angle his vision so that his head of security was out of his blind spot.

“You have how many minutes before the pain hits?” Xhex smiled, flashing her fangs. “Do you really want to be wasting any of them arguing with me?”

Trez bitched his way out of his club, and the instant the cold air hit his sinuses, his stomach seized up—like it was getting ready to go to town early.

Sliding into the passenger seat of his own BMW, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The aura was getting larger, the original line of shimmer splitting into two and fanning outward, moving slowly toward the edge of his vision.

During the trip home, he found himself feeling glad iAm wasn’t a talker.

Although it wasn’t as if he didn’t know what the guy was thinking.

Too much stress. Too many headaches.

He probably needed to feed as well—but that was not happening for a while.

As his brother drove with alacrity, Trez passed the time picturing where they were in the city; what traffic lights they were going through or stopping at; what turns they were making; where the Commodore was, its towering length looming higher and higher the closer they got.

A sudden decline told him that they were going into the parking garage—and that he’d fallen behind in his mental mapping: as far as he’d known, they were still a couple of blocks away.

Lot of left-hand turns came next as they spiraled down three floors and parked in one of the two spots they were allotted.

By the time they filed into the elevator and iAm punched the eighteenth button, the aura had wandered off the confines of his vision, disappearing as if it had never been.

Calm before the storm.

“Thanks for driving me home,” he said. And meant it. He hated relying on anyone else, but it was pretty damn hard not to hit anything when you had a neon sign flashing in the back of both eyeballs.

“I figured it was better this way.”

“Yeah.”

He and his brother hadn’t talked about the high priest’s visit since it happened, but that hi-how’re-ya from AnsLai was still very much between them—but at least iAm had put aside the pissed off long enough to get him back here.

Trez’s first clue that the headache was gearing up was the way the subtle ding that announced its destination shot through his brain like a bullet.

He groaned as the doors slid open. “This is going to be bad.”

“Didn’t you have one last week?”

He wondered how many more people could ask him that.

iAm took care of the lock on the door, and Trez dumped his jacket three feet into the apartment. He shed his black cashmere sweater on the way down to his bedroom, and was unbuttoning his silk shirt as he walked into—

As he froze, the one and only thing that shot through his head was that scene from the movie Trading Places—when Eddie Murphy walks into his room at the fancy digs and a half-naked chick sits up in his bed and goes, “Hey, Billy Ray.”

The difference in this situation was that his stalker, the one with the bouncer boyfriend and the trust issues, was blond, and not wearing early eighties Spandex pants. Matter of fact, she was fully, motherfucking, buck-ass naked.

The gun that appeared over his shoulder was steady and accessorized with a suppressor.

So iAm could have killed her, no problem.

“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” the chippie said, looking back and forth between him and his brother’s muzzle.

Like she wanted to make herself more appealing, she lifted one arm to fuss with her hair—but if she were hoping her breasts would sway enticingly, she was out of luck: Those rock-hard falsies of hers were as unmovable as something bolted to a wall.

“How did you get in here,” Trez demanded.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” When no one answered her, and that gun stayed up, she pouted. “I got friendly with the security guard, okay. What. Oh, come on…fine, I blew him, okay.”

Classy.

And that dumb-ass bastard rent-a-cop was going to be out of a job.

Trez walked over to the pile of clothes by the end of the bed. “Put these back on and get out.”

God, he was tired.

“Oh, come on,” she whined as her things fluttered all around her. “I just wanted to surprise you when you got home from work. I thought this would make you happy.”

“Well, it doesn’t. You need to get the fuck out—” As she opened her mouth like she was going to go psycho on him, he shook his head and cut her off. “Don’t even think about it. I’m not in the mood, and my brother over here really doesn’t care whether you walk out of here or get carried out in a bag. Get dressed. Get out.”

The chippie looked back and forth again. “You were so nice to me the other night.”

Trez winced as the pain stepped up to the plate and started swinging on the right side of his head. “Honey, I’m going to be real honest here. I don’t even know your name. We banged twice—”

“Three times—”

“I don’t care how many it was. What I do know is that you’re going to let this go tonight. If you come around me or my place again, I’m going to…” The Shadow in him wanted to go in a more blood-thirsty direction, but he forced himself to stay on human terms she’d understand. “…call the police. And you don’t want that, because you’re a drug addict who deals on the side, and if they search your shit, your car, your place, they’re going to find more than just paraphernalia. They’re going to bust you and that idiot meathead you’re sleeping with for possession with intent to distribute, and you’re going to fucking jail.”

The chippie just blinked.

“Don’t push me, sweetie,” Trez said in an exhausted voice. “You won’t like what happens.”

Say what you would about the kid; she was quick when she was properly motivated. A matter of moments later, after some yoga poses to get that plastic rack squeezed into a “blouse” that was two sizes too small, she was on her way, cheapie purse slung over her shoulder, her skyscraper stillies dangling from the ankle straps.

Trez didn’t say another word. Just followed in her wake to the door, opened the way out…and shut the thing in her face as she turned around to say something.

He threw the lock manually.

iAm put his weapon away. “We need to move. This location is compromised.”

His brother was right. It wasn’t like they’d kept where they lived a big-ass secret, but staying at the Commodore was predicated on the idea that a security guard wouldn’t be stupid enough to let a woman into someone’s place without the permission of the owners.

If that could happen once, it could happen again—

Abruptly, the pain intensified, like the volume on his cranial concert from hell had suddenly been cranked.

“I’m going to go throw up for a while,” Trez mumbled as he wheeled away. “We’ll start packing as soon as this migraine is over….”

He had no idea what iAm replied, or even if the guy did.

Fuck.