Dreamfever
Page 13

I gasp.
His hands close tight on my waist, hurting me. “What? What did you see?”
“You. Books. Lots of them. You … I … know you. You are …” I trail off. A sign creaking on a pole in the wind. Amber sconces. A fireplace. Rain. Eternal rain. A bell rings. I like the sound. I shake my head. There was no such place or time. I shake my head harder.
He surprises me. He does not push me with words I do not like to hear. He does not shout at me or call me Mac or insist I talk more.
In fact, when I open my mouth to speak again, he kisses me, hard.
He shuts me up with his tongue, deep.
He kisses me until I cannot speak or even breathe, until I do not even care if I ever breathe again. Until I have forgotten that for a moment he was not a beast but a man. Until the images that so disturbed me are singed to ash by the heat of our lust and gone.
He carries me to the bed and tosses me on it. I feel anger in his body, although I do not know why.
I stretch my naked body on the sleek silk, luxuriating in sensation, in the sure knowledge of what is to come. Of what he is about to do. Of what he makes me feel.
He stares down at me. “See how you look at me. Fuck. I understand why they do it.”
“Who does what?”
“The Fae. Turn women Pri-ya.”
I do not like those words. They terrify me. I am lust. He is my world. I tell him so.
He laughs, and his eyes glitter like night sky pierced by a million stars. “What am I, Mac?” He pours his sleek, powerful body over mine, laces our fingers together, and stretches my hands above my head.
“You are my world.”
“And what do you want from me? Say my name.”
“I want you inside me, Jericho. Now.”
Our sex is savage, as if we are punishing each other. I feel something changing. In me. In him. In this room. I do not like it. I try to stop it with my body, drive it back. I do not look at this room in which we exist. I do not let my mind wander beyond the walls. I am here and he is, too, most of the time, and that is enough.
Later, when I am drifting like a balloon, in that happy, free place that is the twilight sky before dreams, I hear him take a deep breath as if he is about to speak.
He releases it.
Curses.
Takes another breath but says nothing again.
He grunts and punches his pillow. He is divided, this strange man, as if he both wants to speak and wants not to.
Finally, he says tightly, “What did you wear to your senior prom, Mac?”
“Pink dress,” I mumble. “Tiffany bought the same one. Totally ruined my prom. But my shoes were Betsey Johnson. Hers were Stuart Weitzman. My shoes were better.” I laugh. It is the sound of someone I do not recognize, young and without care. It is the laugh of a woman who knows no pain, never did. I wish I knew her.
He touches my face.
There is something different in his touch. It feels like he’s saying good-bye, and I know a moment of panic. But my dream sky darkens and sleep’s moon fills the horizon.
“Don’t leave me.” I thrash in the sheets.
“I’m not, Mac.”
I know I am dreaming then, because dreams are home to the absurd and what he says next is beyond absurd.
“You’re leaving me, Rainbow Girl.”
We’re “Tubthumping” again. He makes me dance around the room, shouting: I get knocked down but I get up again. You’re never gonna keep me down.
He dances with me. We shout the lyrics at each other. Something about seeing this man, this big, sexual, powerful—and, some part of me knows, highly dangerous and unpredictable—man, dancing nude, shouting that he’s never going to be kept down, completely undoes me.
I feel as if I am seeing something forbidden. I know without knowing how I know that the circumstances under which he would behave in such a fashion are incalculably few.
Suddenly I am laughing and cannot stop. I laugh so hard I cannot breathe. “Oh, God, Barrons,” I finally gasp. “I never knew you could dance. Or have fun, for that matter.”
He freezes. “Ms. Lane?” he says slowly.
“Huh? Who’s she?”
He stares at me, hard. “Who am I?”
I stare back. There is danger here, in this moment. I do not like it. I want more “Tubthumping” and tell him so, but he turns off the music.
“What happened on Halloween, Ms. Lane?” He fires the question at me, and I now have the strangest feeling he has been asking me this question over and over for a long time but I block it every time he asks it. Refuse to even hear it. And that perhaps there are dozens of questions he’s been asking me that I have been refusing to hear.
Why is he calling me that new name? I am not she. He repeats the question. Halloween. The word gives me chills. Something dark tries to bubble up in my mind, to break the surface I keep placid and still with sex, sex, sex, and suddenly I am no longer laughing but my body is trembling and my bones are so soft I fall to my knees.
I clutch my head in my hands and shake it violently.
No, no, no. I do not want to know!
Images bombard me: A mob shouting, surging out of control. Rain-slicked, shiny dark streets. Shadows moving hungrily in the darkness. A red Ferrari. Glass breaking. Fires burning. People being driven, herded into hell.
A place of books and lights that falls to the enemy. It mattered to me, that place. I’d lost so much, but at least I had that place.
A gruesome meal. A weapon I both need and fear. People rioting. Trampling one another. A city burning. A belfry. A closet. Darkness and fear. Finally, dawn.