Chapter Eight
Gabriel
I have no intention of helping her.
Why would I? I don’t know who she thought she was convincing with her little sob story, but it certainly wasn’t me.
A list.
Bumper cars. Swim at sunset. Change a tire. Adopt a pet. I find it hard to believe that a Reaper would risk eternal damnation and the wrath of a department full of immortals to … change a tire.
But I’ll play the game. We’ll do her list. I’ll keep her close, and hopefully I’ll be able to put a stop to whatever it is she’s truly here to do.
I don’t believe for a second she has any intention of saving that soul.
I think she came here expecting a quick collection but ran into an unexpected complication when she discovered me.
I think she wants me distracted.
It’s the only explanation as to why she’s sitting at the end of my bar looking like that.
“Stop it,” I snap as I walk past her for the fifth time, a can of Natty Boh in each hand.
“Stop what?” she hisses.
I slide the beers to the fishermen watching the game on the TV above the bar, then lean over and grab the straw out her mouth. I toss it in the bin behind me.
“Stop chewing on the straw.”
“You’re the one who gave me the straw.”
“To drink with.”
Her pupils blow out, only a thin ring of light brown at the outer edges. Her hands press against the bar top and black smudges appear. She covertly lifts her middle finger, a tiny flame where her nail should be.
“Very mature.” My magic rises to meet hers, a fury in my blood and in my chest. Cold metal presses against my palm as it sings through the ink that lines my forearm. “No death magic in my bar.”
“Then stop acting like such an asshole,” she grinds out. Her hands curl back into fists, and the flame disappears. She rolls her shoulders back, and her eyes return to a soft amber. She glares at me. “It was your idea to have me here, remember?”
I release the hilt of my sword and it sinks back into my skin.
Our partnership is off to a rocky start.
“Yeah,” I bite out, feeling nothing but regret.
Because her hair is down tonight, undone from the braid she seems to prefer.
Long, heavy waves of brown spill over her shoulders.
I am distracted at best. Bewitched, at worst. I clear my throat.
“We need to talk about what you want to do off your list. And I wanted to see if you recognize anyone who comes into the bar.”
Her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you trying to find a way around our agreement?”
“No.” Yes.
“Because I hate to break it to you, but a confetti cannon doesn’t explode once I find my assignment.
” She presses up on the bottom rung of her stool and reaches over me, grabbing another straw from the container.
She slides it into her mouth with a sharp look.
“And I can’t look around when you’re constantly stopping to talk to me. ”
“I’m not—”
“You’ve been over here four times. Go bother someone else.”
“Fine.”
“Great.”
“Amazing.”
I trudge to the opposite side of the bar, desperate to be out of her orbit.
Every time I’m near her, it’s like we’re back in that alley-way.
Her plush mouth against mine. The small, bitten-off sounds she made.
A flash of heat, and then bone-deep regret.
I’m practicing exposure therapy tonight, trying to make her presence feel less like a sledgehammer.
But every time I look at Darcy, I see my own shitty mistakes reflected back at me. I was so easily led astray. I know my mission, and I got distracted by a pretty smile and sad eyes. I rub at the raised, rough scars over my chest.
I have two strikes. I can’t afford another. This is my last chance to get it right.
At the end of the bar, Frank is waiting with his cup of cherries, a contemplative look on his face. I top him off without him having to ask, shaking out an extra few for some karmic cushion.
He arches an eyebrow. “Looks like your friend is back.”
I screw on the top of the cherry container with more force than necessary, cracking the lid. “It would seem so.”
“But you’re not happy about it.”
“Yeah, well. I told you. Things didn’t exactly end well last time.”
“That’s right. Because you’re shortsighted.” Frank plucks a cherry from his glass. “She looks familiar.”
“She was here a couple of days ago.”
“No.” He rolls a stem between his fingers, thoughtful. “There’s something about her. Her eyes, maybe.”
I turn to look. Darcy is sitting sideways on her stool, her long legs crossed at the knee. She’s wearing some sort of black dress tonight that looks like an oversize T-shirt. Black tights underneath that are just sheer enough to tease at creamy skin. It shouldn’t do anything for me, and yet …
It must be her magic. Some sort of allure or attraction meant to pull me in. Like a goddamned spider to its web.
I turn back around and start rearranging the bottles underneath the bar. “I don’t see it.”
“I think I’ve seen her before.”
“Your nightmares, probably,” I say under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” I roll my shoulders back and abandon the bottles, rearranging coasters instead.
The bar is quiet today. There’s a group in the corner and a few stragglers spaced out at various tables, but they’ve all been taken care of, and there’s only so many times I can drop off tiny bowls of peanuts.
The quiet is giving my thoughts room to fester.
“I want you to stay away from her, okay?”
Frank looks startled. “What? Why?”
Because Frank is teetering into his eighties, and the last thing I need is for Darcy to pad her quota for the month. “Because I don’t trust her.”
He rasps out a husky laugh. “Is she armed?”
“Frank.”
“You’re talking about that woman over there?” He points with one gnarled finger, a callus next to his knuckle from de-thorning roses. “That’s the girl you don’t trust?”
“Say it a little louder, Frank. I’m not sure she heard you.”
He’s gleeful, popping cherries into his mouth until his cheeks are bulging like a squirrel’s. “She’s a fraction of your size, Gabe. She looks like one swift wind could carry her off. She’s—what? Five foot eight? Maybe?”
I don’t know. All I know is the top of her head barely comes to my chin.
I know that when I curl my arm around the small of her back, I can fit her snug against my body.
I know that it was easy for me to hitch her legs around my hips.
That her breathing sped up when I pressed my mouth just beneath her ear.
Christ. I can’t stop thinking about this woman.
Not just a woman, I remind myself. A Reaper.
A test to my priorities. To my senses.
I glance over my shoulder again. She’s toying with her half-empty glass and the straw she stole, her chin in her hand.
But she’s not alone anymore. A man in a red-and-black flannel leans in the space next to her, pointing at something on one of the cheap laminated menus I made three months ago.
She tips her head back and laughs, angling her body to welcome him closer.
I guess I’m not the only dumbass caught in her web.
Frustration burns hot in the pit of my belly.
“Who is that she’s talking to?”
Frank tips sideways to get a look. “That’s Casey. John’s boy. He just took over his dad’s mechanic shop down on Ridgley Ave.”
I don’t give a shit about Casey or John or the mechanic shop down on Ridgley Ave.
I push both hands through my hair and anchor them behind my neck.
I should let it go. Pretend I don’t see her sinking her claws into an unsuspecting mortal.
I have more important things to focus on.
Like Frank and his cherry addiction. The hose for the soda dispenser that’s been leaking for the past three months.
Nate, in the corner, doing his best to flirt his way with a woman I know is with one of the naval officers from the base.
I have my list of responsibilities, and Darcy and who she’s talking to does not rank among them.
The reminder doesn’t help. Neither does the stubborn stain I spend approximately seven minutes trying to scrub off the bar. My attention is firmly focused on Darcy, and what she is or isn’t doing.
I try to remember all the things that were on her list. If flirting with strangers was one of them.
“You doing okay?” Frank asks, looking amused.
“Fine.”
Darcy pushes her hair behind her shoulder, and it spills down her back. Then she reaches for Casey’s hand, his cheeks a ruddy red as she traces a line from his thumb to his pinky with her pointer finger.
I slam down a bottle of vodka. There’s no reason she should be touching the mortals.
“Excuse me for a second.”
Frank’s laughter follows me across the bar. I don’t bother leaning over the counter. I duck under it instead, swinging around the edge. I’m tired of playing polite. Darcy is treading a dangerous line, and if she wants us to work together like she claims, then she needs to learn to follow the rules.
Her eyes find mine over the shoulder of the man she’s toying with, the smile dripping off her face. She drops his hand.
Good.
No more touching.
Darcy forces her expression into something carefully blank, her dark eyes penetrating.
“Having a nice chat?” I ask.
Mr. I’ve-Already-Forgotten-His-Name still has his hand extended between them. His smile falters at my appearance.
“Uh. Yeah, actually, we were. Did you need something?” He notes my shirt, the word BAR written across my chest, and visibly relaxes. “Is this spot reserved or something?”
“No.”
“Oh. Are you here to, uh, grab our orders?”
I shake my head, smirking at the way Darcy is trying to glare a hole through the center of my forehead. “Looks like you’re set on drinks.”
“Cool.” He takes a shaky sip of his beer, confused but trying to hide it. “Darcy was just telling me about her work with historical texts.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Is that why she was holding your hand? Because you were talking about historical texts?”
His face scrunches in confusion. “Holding my— Oh. No. She was reading my palm.” He grins, looking proud. “She says I’ve got a strong lifeline.”
“Is that so?”