Chapter 9
An electronic bell crackles a bling-blong overhead as Carter pulls open the glass door to the Nantucket Inn’s office. The office itself is utterly generic. Anyone walking in here expecting Nantucket Island or cozy vibes is going to be sorely disappointed.
Black and gray striped squares of indoor/outdoor carpeting tile the floor in a dizzying pattern.
A pair of faux leather chairs with shiny metal legs, the kind no one ever sits in, wait in front of the glass windows.
A metal spinning rack holds a series of faded brochures about local attractions and features of interest.
But my primary interest is, as I expected, asleep at the front desk, cheek resting on the crease of what appears to be an econ textbook. Erik Simmons goes to Beecher part-time and he’s local, like Chessa. Except nothing like her.
“Jocasta, I think—” Carter begins in a whisper.
I step past him and pound on the front desk with my fist three times in rapid succession. Erik leaps upward with an audible gasp, his battered desk chair shooting backward behind him.
Behind me, Carter makes a disapproving sound.
Erik shoves his shaggy brown hair out of his bloodshot eyes. “Uh, hello, and welcome to the Nan…” He trails off, his eyes widening as he recognizes me.
Here we go.
Face pale, Erik throws his hands up and backs away. “No, no. Look, I did what I promised, okay?” he says in a high-pitched pleading voice. “I’ve been checking IDs on the cash customers. No one underaged.”
I sense Carter’s attention snapping to.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I say.
Erik’s gaze skitters to Carter. “She tried to kill me, bro. She’s crazy.”
I keep a firm grip on my temper. “We’ve been through this before. You’re welcome to call the police.” I reach across the registration desk and push the cordless desk phone toward him, grimacing at the sticky plastic.
Erik gives a hoarse laugh, his hands still in the air as if I’m holding a gun on him. “And tell them what, that you’re a witch?”
I roll my eyes. A witch, seriously? Though, given Beecher’s proximity to what was Salem and the history of the whole area, it sort of makes sense. Kind of like how everything in New Mexico and Nevada gets blamed on little gray aliens and Bigfoot has a place of honor in the PNW.
Also, he may not be that far off—I have zero proof, but it seems very possible that the whole witch trial mishegoss started off as the Old Ones entertaining themselves.
Death, Lust, or even possibly Life, the one associated with crops and growth.
Maybe all three, competing against one another—seeing who could outdo the others. They did shit like that.
“She told me exactly how I would die if I didn’t do what she said,” Erik says to Carter. “She told me I would feel the life draining out of me, and I did, bro.” His face seems to lose more color at the memory. “I woke up on the floor. She’s a fucking witch!”
Shame floods through me. It was a momentary lapse in judgment.
Year before last, I took about fifteen minutes off his life, give or take.
I might have been able to get my point across with just words.
But … I lost my temper when he looked right at me with that smug fucking smile and asked me what I was going to do to stop him.
The powerful wielding their control over the powerless, like they’re simply pawns in a game instead of people in their own right? Yeah, a bit of a hot button for me
So, I showed him.
He deserved it. And it worked.
I shove back against the swell of gritty satisfaction. Maybe he did deserve what I did to him, but it’s not my job to be judge, jury, and enforcer.
No matter how effective it is.
I keep my attention on Erik, refusing to check to see how all of this is landing with Carter.
Carter is a grad student in psych. He’ll assume—I hope—that everything Erik is describing is all in his head.
Anxiety or Somatic Symptom Disorder. That’s the only rational explanation.
After all, it’s not like anyone can actually siphon life away. As far as he knows.
“Just listen,” I say before Erik can babble further incriminating but hopefully incomprehensible details to Carter. “I need to know if someone checked in the last couple of days. He might be using the name Devon.”
But Erik is already shaking his head. “No one new. Just the usuals.”
So poorly funded affairs, drugs, and drunks. Beecher is a “nice” small town—private university, low crime rate, one of the last drive-in movie theaters in the country, and three Starbucks—but humans always need somewhere to sink to new lows.
“He’s a tall guy, square jaw, super hot?” I press. It’s possible that Devon paid for a room, but I suspect he would simply “charm” his way into one. Why pay for what you can just take? And the Nantucket is the perfect place if you don’t want to draw attention to yourself.
“No, no, no.” Erik shakes his head again, floppy hair flopping violently. “No one like that. Can you just go now? My boss is going to be here any second.”
I search his expression, searching for any hint of that dreamy, distant focus I saw in Happy’s last night. But all I’m getting from Erik is sweaty panic.
Damn. Devon’s really not here. I thought he would stay in town, somewhere close. Just by that something unspoken in his gaze. He needs me to know whatever it is I don’t know, and my gut says he won’t go too far until I do.
The Just Fuck It is a great place if you low-key need to stay out of sight. Or commit various misdemeanors. You don’t have to be a local to know that—the empty, crumbling swimming pool and generally shabby exterior make the vibe clear enough.
But maybe Devon doesn’t want to hide.
I grab a comment card off the plexi stand on the front desk and scrawl Carter’s phone number on it. “You’ll text me if you see someone like that,” I say, shoving the card at Erik. Though if Devon does show and tells him to keep quiet—with a wink and a smile, of course—Erik won’t have a choice.
But I don’t think that’ll happen. I’m off somehow. Missing something. Shit.
Erik nods rapidly. “Yes. Absolutely. Of course.”
I back away from the desk, keeping my gaze on Erik until I reach the door. More to make my point than from fear of some type of retribution.
“He’s scared of you,” Carter says as soon as we’re outside, making no attempt to hide the condemnation in his voice. “What did you do to him?”
“He should be,” I mutter, ignoring the second question. I need to rethink my approach on finding Devon. Where are you?
“That kid is obviously ill, Jocasta,” Carter continues. “Paranoid or suffering from some form of anxiety. And you used that against him.” He pauses, disapproval hanging thick in the momentary silence. “That’s not who I thought you were.”
Stung, I stop. Oh to be fully human and so blithely confident in how the world works from a sheer lack of knowledge.
I spin to face Carter. “Your buddy back there? He was renting rooms to high school students who wanted to party.”
That gives him pause, but after a second he shrugs tightly. “It’s normal at that age to rebel against authority by drinking and experimenting sexually—”
“I took adolescent psych, too,” I snap. “Tell me what part of that involves Erik selling that information to guys in town and on campus who like their ‘dates’ too young and too vulnerable.”
Fury flashes across Carter’s face, transforming him briefly into someone almost unrecognizable. All angles, cold eyes, and hardness. But then that familiar, carefully blank expression returns. “I see.” But his fists are clenched at his sides.
“Yeah.” I point at him. “Exactly. Chessa volunteers at Beecher High School, some kind of mentoring program. One of her mentees told her about it. After … after.” I swallow hard against the lump of outrage and despair in my throat.
“These men would wait in the parking lot and offer these fifteen-year-old girls a ride home.”
In my mind, I can still see Chessa pacing back and forth in our room on her phone, pleading with her mentee. “Names, descriptions, anything. Or if you don’t want to tell me, then we can go directly to the police. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
Her voice was steady while she was talking with the girl, but when she looked at me, her eyes huge and tear-filled, magnified behind her glasses, my heart ached on her behalf.
And on behalf of those girls who just wanted to have a good time and instead got a lesson on how the world treats the vulnerable.
I pull open the passenger door and climb in, careful of my ankle this time. Carter gets in on the other side, moving stiffly as if his anger has settled into his joints.
“The girls wouldn’t report it,” I say, yanking my seat belt into place.
“Because they were drinking,” Carter says grimly, starting the car. “They were afraid they’d get in trouble. Or that no one would believe them.”
I tap my nose. “Got it in one. So I went to the source and shut it down. By whatever means necessary.” And maybe I lost my grip a little. That’s why I try very hard to stay out of anything magic related. It’s too unpredictable. I’m too unpredictable.
“I’m sorry,” Carter says after a moment. He turns toward me in his seat. “I should have known…” He shakes his head with a grimace. “I do know you better than that.”
He shouldn’t apologize; I did exactly what he accused me of. Worse, even, because he has no idea what I’m capable of. Because he doesn’t really know me. And he never can.
The realization all over again throbs like a fresh wound. The pain in my chest feels like mourning a lost relationship rather than simply the potential of one. Chessa’s right. I need to stop doing this to myself.
Carter’s gaze catches on mine, and he reaches out to take my hand where it rests, balled in a fist, on my leg. “Hey. I’m serious. I’m sorry.” He’s picking up on my sadness, even if he doesn’t understand the real reason for it.
His fingers interlace with mine and squeeze gently. His palm is warm and rough against mine, and my breath catches.
As always, that spark between us heats with little effort. Why, why is it like this? And only with him?
Biting my lower lip, I reach out and smooth his rumpled hair with my other hand. The strands are soft and thick against my fingertips, and his eyes half close in pleasure.
Then his focus drops to my mouth, and he releases my hand to touch my chin lightly, tugging my lower lip free from my teeth. “Don’t.” His voice is raspy and low. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
I want him to hurt me, in that fine line between pleasure and pain.
To take me and overwhelm me and hold nothing back.
I want to be wrapped up in him and lose myself.
I grasp the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to me.
An inch away, his breath caresses my mouth and I want.
To devour him, to be devoured in return. “Can we just—”
His lips brush over mine, soft but not tentative. More teasing, elusive. A taste rather than a full-on feast.
Yes. The bones in my spine melt, leaving me sagging forward in pleasure and relief. His tongue dips into my mouth, caressing the teardrop of my upper lip, sending heat in lightning strokes between my legs. But he retreats before I can respond.
I groan in frustration, tightening my grip on his shirt and trying to move closer. But he keeps his hand steady on my chin, holding me in place.
“Careful,” he says, his breathing hard, rapid.
I gaze up at him, those bright blue eyes swallowed by the spread of his pupils.
“No,” I whisper. I am so tired of careful.
I tug his hand away from my chin and lean forward to suck his lower lip into my mouth, biting gently. Though not as gently as I could.
A tremor runs through his whole body, and his hands lash upward to tangle in the back of my hair, dragging me closer. His mouth opens under mine, hot, demanding.
The center console between us digs into my ribs, but I don’t care. The discomfort is a distant idea, nowhere near as powerful or as present as the desire to feel his skin against mine. To slip my hand down over the velvety softness of his worn jeans and trace the contours of his heat and hardness.
To take him in my mouth, while he’s still behind the wheel, and feel him lose control, chest heaving, hands tight in my hair. Even if the windows offer a view of us to anyone who happens to walk by.
I don’t care.
I slide my hand down his chest, toward the button of his jeans, but a loud buzzing sound intrudes. It takes me a second to identify it as his phone, still in its tidy cubby, vibrating obnoxiously against its plastic cage.
Carter jolts, pulling back slightly. His lips are red and swollen.
“Ignore it,” I murmur.
But it’s too late; reality has seeped in with the arrival of that incoming text.
Carter straightens up, shifting his body away from me, even as he reaches past me to retrieve his phone.
Damnit. I drop back into my seat, my mouth still tingling from his.
Carter unlocks his phone and thumbs for his messages. He goes deadly still after a moment, staring down at the screen.
Eagerness spikes through me. Could it be Erik already?
But no. Not based on Carter’s intense, shamed expression and the flush to his cheeks.
Oh shit fuck. I forgot about the new girl. “Everything okay?” I ask, clearing my throat. My voice is too high-pitched for normal.
Carter doesn’t answer right away. He clicks the screen off and returns the phone to its cubby. “It’s Stephens,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “He wants me to come in. Something about late essays.”
Uh-huh. At noon on a Saturday without any notice? That doesn’t sound right. If it is, Stephens has hellacious timing. Like, crystal ball, see into mirror darkly, psychic shit.
“Are we good to go back to campus?” Carter asks. “Or do we need to shake down the front desk clerk at the DoubleTree in Danvers for cookies and information?” He offers me a smile, but it’s tight, forced. I can sense him retreating, even with his physical form still in the seat next to mine.
Of course.
A surge of anger rises in my throat. Anger at myself. I know better than this. But I keep sticking my hand in the boiling water and then being surprised when my skin blisters and burns.
“We can go back,” I say flatly, shifting to face forward. Clearly, that’s the better choice for both of us right now. I need to focus on more important things, anyway. Like finding out what the hell is going on. With or without Devon.
I need to come up with another approach.
I grimace. Or stop avoiding the next most logical one.