Part 4 (2/2)

Suddenly, he didn't want to see the lucky sonofab.i.t.c.h who had come with her, or whom she had come to meet. He knew that he would hate the miserable p.r.i.c.k, purely as a matter of principle. No matter how cool that p.r.i.c.k might turn out to be. . .

And that was when the loneliness kicked in; worse yet, the futility of even being smitten with the urge. Because, yes, he had l.u.s.ted out of his league before. And, yes, it was always a painful thing, the perfect complement to that I-am-a-piece-of-s.h.i.+t feeling. To crave the unattainable was to court disaster, the total destruction of his hard-won self-esteem. He didn't need, right now, to feel any worse about himself.

Any more than she needed to be stared at by him, he realized, and felt even more like a fool. It was entirely possible that she'd come all the way out here in the hope of not getting stared at by every unemployed steelworker in the state of Pennsylvania. Already, the smoky air was filled with apelike hoots and whistles and hollers. It made him, as always, deeply embarra.s.sed for his gender. He wondered if she knew what she was getting herself into.

In that moment, he resolved to break the chain. Stop staring. Help turn the tide back to its own d.a.m.n business. He had a few things to discuss with Jules, anyway. Like his sanity, for instance. Now was as good a time as any to stop torturing himself.

Having resolved all that, he turned around to look at her again.

Only to discover that she was now looking at him.

For a second, his mind totally emptied of thought: like a flash pot had gone off between his ears, blinding his inner eye. Then thought and sight returned as one, and he was watching her scrutinize him from ten feet away: head c.o.c.ked slightly to one side, one long finger absently tracing her lower lip. Her nostrils flared, just the tiniest bit, as if she were tracking on the basis of some all-but-imperceptible scent. The nose ring gleamed and sparkled in the dim light.

Then she started to smile-with her eyes locked on his-and he got the very strange feeling that she'd somehow found what she was looking for. And he realized that he'd been mistaken about at least one other thing.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

He, on the other hand, didn't have a G.o.ddam clue. ”Whoa,” he muttered under his breath as she took one step toward him. The word didn't begin to sum up how he felt. Panicked. Amped. Exhilarated. Confused. ”Urn,” he said, and then she was another step closer.

He looked abruptly away, stared hard at his lap, his knees, his boots, the floorboards beneath. He could feel her eyes upon him still. It brought sweat p.r.i.c.kling to the surface of his skin.

Look at her, he told himself, and found that he could not. He shot another quick glance at Jules, found that Jules was staring back at him, no help at all. Suddenly, he knew that the heat on his skin was not her eyes alone.

All eyes were upon him.

Upon them both.

And then he felt her proximity, the heat of her skin, as she took that final step. He could smell her: a steamy, luxuriant musk that unraveled what little remained of his composure. He could feel his pulse thud through his horning erection, a terse yet jubilant echo of his own hammering heart.

When at last he looked up, she was already beside him, leaning into the bar. She smiled at him, nailed his gaze once and for all. Her voice, when she spoke, was silken, lethal.

”Hi,” she said. ”Is that your brain?”

”What?”

She pointed to his drink. It took a second to track. ”Ah . . .” he said, and numbly nodded yes.

Again, she smiled. ”May I?”

And before he could answer, she reached across to take the gla.s.s and raise it, ever so slowly, to those lips.

But when her tongue snaked out-glistening, frighteningly long-to scoop the lump of congealed and bleeding Baileys from the gla.s.s, he could stand it no longer.

He started to laugh.

Amus.e.m.e.nt gleamed in her emerald eyes as she swallowed. ”Now,” she said, ”you'll have to tell me why you're laughing.”

”Umm . . .” Laughing some more, slowly shaking his head. ”I guess it's maybe because I'm in shock.”

”Ah.” Waiting for him to elaborate.

”Because . . . umm I don't understand what's going on?” He hoped that, by his phrasing it as a question, she might show him some mercy.

No dice. ”And what is going on?”

He laughed again, harder this time. ”You're not gonna give me a f.u.c.king ounce of slack, are ya?”

At last, she laughed as well. ”Well . . . no.” Her eyes positively danced. Her laugh was deep and rich and dirty. What a surprise.

”Okay.” The simple act of making her laugh broke the tension at some subtle but critical level. ”Maybe it's because you just swallowed my brain, and I don't even know who you are.”

”Ah.” She took the bait, proffered her hand.

”My name is Nora.”

And Syd didn't know what else to do, so he took her hand into his own. And the rush of that first contact sent a physical shudder through the muscles of his back, made the filament nerves running down his spine glow green with the light from her eyes. He looked into those eyes, searching for some clue as to her intentions, saw only wry amus.e.m.e.nt and the purest molten fire.

And he wanted to say my divorce is final. The wreckage of my life has begun to settle, and I think I might be ready to try and live again.

And he wanted to say I almost died today. Twice. Maybe three times, if you count that letter. And I am such a ma.s.s of scar tissue and damage that it's a miracle I can feel you at all.

And he wanted to say just don't lie to me. Please. That's the only thing I ask.

Because it's the one thing I don't think I could survive.

But he couldn't. And because he couldn't bring himself to find or speak the words, couldn't cough them up from the depths of his soul and hack them out into the world, he found himself at a crossroads. What he feared-more than anything-was that this would all vaporize should he try to hold on to it. What he wanted-more than anything-was to believe that a moment such as this could actually be this direct and real.

As real as the hand he now held in his own.

That hand was warm and slender, surprisingly calloused and strong. It hovered expectantly, neither giving nor taking, but simply awaiting his next move. Syd didn't know what else to do, so he brought it slowly to his lips, kissing the web of flesh that joined finger to finger to hand.

It was clear, from her eyes, that she approved. ”Nora,” he said, her name thick and powerful in his throat. ”So what are we doing?”

”That remains to be seen,” she told him, smiling. ”But I think we're off to an excellent start.”

6.

It didn't take long, in the grand scheme of things, to move from point A to point B. Nora was nothing if not direct. She had no interest in small talk, past the barest fundamentals: his name, his beverage of choice, did he live alone. Syd found that this was not a problem, so long as she kept touching him like that. Thus far, she had displayed no inclination to stop.

It started with the barest of fingertip contact as he handed her her drink. Nora drank Southern Comfort, neat. As he raised the gla.s.s to her grasp Nora's little finger curled into the palm of his hand, the nail grazing the calloused skin there, then raking outward as she withdrew. Her fingernail was long and sharp, and the resulting sensation set off a chain reaction in Syd's nervous system that left him visibly shaking.

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