Burned
Page 53

Inside me a book whumps closed. For the time being. Looks like I’ve learned one more way to temporarily shut it up. Poems and bartending. Who’d have thought? But Band-Aids for my disease aren’t what I’m after. I want a surgeon to perform an operation that leaves a deep incision where something nasty used to be, followed by a scar to remind me every day that it’s over and I survived.
And for that I need a half-mad king. Not getting any closer to finding the spell stuck in this place.
“Hey, Mac,” Jo says, dropping onto a stool. “What’s with all the Unseelie behind your bar?”
“Don’t ask. Just don’t even go there.”
She shrugs. “Have you seen Dani lately?”
That question has become a stake through my heart. One of these days I’m just going to snap, Yes, and I’m the jackass that chased her into the Hall of All Days, so crucify me and put me out of my misery.
I give my standard, noncommittal reply.
“How about Kat?”
“Not for a few days.”
Beneath a cap of short dark hair, shimmering with blond and auburn highlights, Jo’s delicate face is pale, her eyes red from crying. I shake my head and debate saying something about what I saw this morning.
My brain vetoes the idea. My mouth says, “I saw what you did this morning,” proving my suspicion that the road between the two is as bad as the highways around Atlanta, under eternal, hazardous construction.
“What do you mean?” she says warily.
“Ryodan nodded and you turned away. You dumped him.”
She inhales sharply and holds it a moment, then, “I suppose you think I’m crazy.”
“No,” I say. “I think you’re beautiful and smart and talented and deserve a man that can feel with something besides his dick.”
She blinks and looks surprised, and it pisses me off because she should know all of that.
“I understood from the beginning what he was, Mac,” she says tiredly. “What it was between us. But he has such … and I never felt … and I started wanting to believe even though I knew better. Began telling myself all kinds of lies. So I moved on before he did. Pride was all I had left to salvage.”
“Doesn’t make it any easier though, does it?” I say sympathetically. I feel my bartending skills blossoming: the pouring, listening, steering away from complete anesthetization with alcohol toward something that might actually help, change the person’s life, shake it up in a good way.
“I don’t think I’m strong enough to stay away from him, Mac. I’m going to quit working here. I can’t see him every day. You know what they’re like. He may not have taken anyone else up those stairs this morning, but he will. I’m going to ask Kat if I can move back to the abbey.”
“Know the best way to forget a man?”
“A frontal lobotomy?”
I snort, thinking of that song we used to play back home in the Brickyard that went, I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. “No. With two men.”
She smiles but it fades swiftly. “I’m afraid I’d be needing ten to clear my head of that man.”
“Or perhaps,” I say, “a single incredible one.” Stupendous sex is a drug, addictive, consuming. I know from personal experience.
“Sounds like you have someone in mind. I’m so not in the mood, Mac. He’d only pale in comparison.”
“Maybe not.” I lean across the counter and speak softly into her ear.
When she leaves, wearing a thoughtful expression, I ponder the seed I planted, hoping it yields healthy fruit. I think it will. I think it’s exactly what she needs to buffer her heart, cleanse her body from craving the touch of a man we both know she can never hold.
Besides, there’s a possibility it will piss Ryodan off, in a territorial sort of way, which will still further ease the sting to Jo’s wounded heart.
Heaven knows the man I pointed her at won’t mind.
I smile and line a few choice bottles up on my counter, and try my hand at pouring high and flashy. Patrons love a good show.
When I glance up to greet a couple of new customers, I inhale sharply and stare right past them, staggered by the vision I see, unable to process my abrupt change in fortune. Talk about tall, dark, and utterly unexpected.
Time grinds to a halt and everything goes still around me, the thronging patrons receding beyond the edges of my periphery, leaving only one: the Dreamy-Eyed Guy, wearing an amused expression, is standing three clubs away, watching me toss my bottles flamboyantly, and I recall a night I watched him do the same.
He inclines his head, dark eyes starry. Nice show.
The Unseelie King is back in town, wearing his old skins again!
We’ve been scouring ancient books and scrolls for months, trying to find the spell to summon him, and the surgeon I need just arrived out of the blue! The one with butterfly fingers who creates and destroys worlds and can surely remove this great staining darkness inside me!
I didn’t think he’d ever come back willingly, off with his concubine somewhere, rekindling her memory and reclaiming her love.
Elation floods me. I can get my life back, and while I’m at it, get rid of my smelly Unseelie, too. Approach the queen about the Song of—I swiftly terminate that thought and repadlock it.
I vault the counter, sending glasses flying and shoving startled patrons off their stools, but by the time my feet hit the floor, the Dreamy-Eyed Guy is gone.