Becca Fitzpatrick: Silence

Patch reflexively dipped, and Rixon’s next jab passed over his shoulder. With an upward swipe, Patch drilled his fist into the underside of Rixon’s chin. He attacked the core of Rixon’s body, aiming repeatedly for the ribs and flesh around his stomach, but the moment his friend dropped his arms to protect himself, he went for his head. Once, twice. Twice more. After five direct blows Rixon staggered out of range and flipped his palms up.

“You want me to scream uncle, that it?” Rixon panted, wearing a grin that said he was enjoying himself for the first time all night.

The blonde wedged her way through the tables to Rixon. She held out her napkin, gesturing at his face. “You’ve got a little blood …”

“Thanks, love.” Rixon dabbed the napkin to his mouth, then cast a sly wink at Patch. His voice slipped easily into Patch’s mind. Said I wanted a girl closer to seven hundred, did I? I meant seven hundred … give or take.

Patch settled grim eyes on the blonde, wishing he could mind-trick her into obediently going back to her table, but Rixon would pick up on it and ask questions. He let out a slow breath. Twenty-four hours from now, Rixon wouldn’t remember her name. She, however, had a slightly longer attention span. A complication.

“So tell me, love,” Rixon drawled to the blonde. “Ever ridden on a Ducati Streetfighter? I’m parked out back.”

The blonde was already throwing her purse strap over her shoulder. “Does your friend have a bike too? He could take my friend, Nora.” To Patch’s surprise, she waved at him.

“Vee,” the redhead said with exasperation and warning.

The blonde didn’t bother listening. She turned to Rixon. “First things first. Someone should clean you up. I took a babysitting CPR course this summer. When it comes to nosebleeds, I’m your girl.” She grabbed Rixon by the sleeve and hauled him toward the unisex restroom.

True to form, Rixon slung an arm around her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek. “Lead the way, Nurse … Vee, was it?”

Patch found himself standing in disbelief beside the redhead. Two minutes ago he’d had things under control. He raked his hands through his hair. He might as well have plowed a Mack truck down the middle of his plan.

The redhead shifted her weight. She stole a look up at him, only to immediately swing her eyes away. She was frightened by him. He wondered if he had this effect on her naturally or if she sensed on some subconscious level what he wanted from her.

A strange war of desires battled inside him, pulling him in opposite directions. He wanted to make her uneasy. Ironically, he was also frightened of scaring her off. Now that he had her close, he wanted to keep her there.

She cleared her throat. “Think you could tell your friend to cut back on the slickness factor? If he gets any oilier, third world countries are going to start looking to him as a supplier.”

Patch smiled down at her. She was prettier up close. Cautious but expressive eyes, an aristocratic nose, a few freckles she probably hated, and that hair. Wild and rebellious. He had the urge to snap the rubber band and send her hair cascading around her shoulders. Other than his Nephilim mark on her wrist, Chauncey’s genes had done her the favor of sparing her any similarities.

“So,” he said. “You’re from around here?”

She craned her neck, searching the restaurant, clearly bent on appearing absorbed in anything but talking to him. “It would seem so. And you are …?”

“Jev.” He could tell by the slight downturn of her mouth she thought it was an odd name. Most humans did.

“And you?” she asked. “Are you from around here? I haven’t seen you before.”

“I keep a low profile.”

“Why’s that?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

She flinched. He’d meant to kill the conversation and it worked. He knew he looked like a jerk, but given what he had in store for her, he could do a lot worse. He realized he should leave it alone, but now that he had her talking, he found himself drawn to her. The banter between them felt natural. And she was responding. Scared of him, sure, but equally curious. He could see it well enough in her eyes.

With conscious effort, Patch turned his body toward her, displaying interest. He smiled politely. “I’m in town on business.”

“What kind of business?” she asked after a minute.

“Genealogy. Tracking down long-lost family members.”

“Which family are you researching?”

“Langeais.”

“I’m not aware of any Langeaises in Coldwater.”

He rubbed his thumb across his mouth to quell a smile. “Sounds like I’ve got my work cut out.”

“How long are you planning to stay in town?”

“As long as it takes.” He bent his head toward hers as though they were conspirators. “It would speed things up if I had a tour guide, someone to show me around.”

Her mouth crooked with a wry little smile, as if she knew what he was up to, but she teased him by saying, “You’re in luck. Vee is an excellent tour guide.”

He recovered his surprise quickly. “But I prefer redheaded tour guides.”

She spread her hands in regret. “Sorry. I don’t know any redheads.”

“Check the mirror this morning?”

She tapped her finger to her mouth, a playful gesture that drew his attention to her lips, prim and sensuous, which he had already had the pleasure of noticing. She was cautiously warming up to him, and Patch felt the restaurant tunnel around them, the background noises dropping away. A part of him that had been locked up for so long loosened. He felt a strange satisfaction being near her. A teasing contact that made him want more.

Not missing a beat, she said, “I did. And I recall seeing a brunette.”

He laughed, trying to figure out this game she was playing. “Might need to get your vision checked.”

“So that explains why you have three eyes, two horns, and one very yellow fang where your front teeth should be.” She cocked her head to the side, squinting at him.

He grinned. “Busted. I’m a monster. Jev is my deceptively harmless — and shockingly handsome — alter ego.”

“And I’m on top of it,” she announced with witty triumph.

“Is that a Freudian slip?”

His bluntness caught her off guard. A self-conscious blush rose in her face. She stood uncertain a moment, then gestured with impatience at the restroom. “How long does it take to clean a bloody nose?”

He laughed low. “Not sure that’s the only thing they’re doing in there.”

Her eyes widened with shock … then narrowed in scrutiny, trying her hardest to figure out if he was teasing. For once, he wasn’t. “Maybe you should go knock on the door,” she suggested at last.

The suggestion didn’t appeal to him. He wasn’t in any hurry to end things. The thought of leaving her now left him with an impatient ache. He hadn’t felt this way in a very long time. As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t felt a spark of interest in so long, it was like feeling it for the first time. “Won’t do any good. The only thing that’ll grab Rixon’s attention is the sound of his bike starting. Someone breathes on it, and he notices the condensation. You want to get him out of there, that’s your best option.”

“You’re saying I should take his bike for a ride?”

“More like be my accomplice.” He let the idea dangle.

“And you want me to go with you, why?”

So I can get you alone long enough to erase your mind. And if he was being honest, to get her alone, period. His eyes dropped to her mouth, and he enjoyed a secret pleasure of imagining kissing her. “Let me guess. You’ve never been on a Ducati Streetfighter.”