Borrowed Souls (Soul Charmer #1)(54)

“You should be wary, man. Didn’t anyone tell you the hot ones are always crazy?” Why was she playing into his game here? Sex appeal wasn’t really in Callie’s repertoire. She could get laid. That didn’t make her cover model material. Unless the vodka also put a couple extra pounds on her to hide the ramifications of eating like shit, she was pretty sure she was bringing basic to this party.

He rolled his eyes.

“I’m not lying. You underestimate my level of fucked up.”

“Or maybe you overestimate it.” He paused and downed another third of his cocktail. “We’ve all got shit in our past. Baggage. Whatever. Some people hide it really well. Doesn’t mean they’re better or less crazy.”

She took a sip, and another, and another, until her temples began to go mushy. “So you’re saying the hot equals crazy equation is false?”

“You always get so math-y when you drink?”

She planted her elbow on her thigh and rested her chin on her hand. His comment was flippant, but she pondered it regardless. “No,” she finally decided. “This is special for you.”

He skimmed his fingers in lazy circles on her shoulder, and emotions she didn’t want to examine percolated in her stomach. “There’s more to you than following me around. Tell me, who is Callie?”

The personal question should have stomped on the fluttering sensation inside her. Secrets protected her. If no one knew you, no one could hurt you. She waited for the inevitable fear to rise—that feeling of being stretched so thin that organs were visible—but it never came. “I’m boring,” she finally said.

“Not going to buy that one.” His palm eased to the nape of her neck. Had he moved closer or was it wishful thinking?

“I serve simple meals to old people at a retirement home for work. I don’t sleep enough, and I eat a lot of really crappy sandwiches. Boring.”

“Where else have you worked?”

“Are we counting indentured servitude to creepy, soul-stealing men?”

His side-eye glare was impressive.

Lying took too much effort. “I used to work at Southside Memorial.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m aces at serving food.”

“What else?” He had been paying attention at St. Catherine’s.

She didn’t talk about her run at being a nurse. Family came first, and that meant hard decisions. It was the right thing to do, but damn if she couldn’t remember the knife twisting when that dream had been stolen from her. The memory was enough to staunch the warmth Derek was stoking. He watched her with the patience of Job. No frown touched his face. His fingers didn’t press any more firmly against her neck. He just … waited. “This is how you get informants to talk, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I’m a good listener.”

She went for another sip, and discovered the glass empty. “New plan. This life story business should be a quid pro quo thing.”

He raised his eyebrows, but couldn’t contain the grin that quickly followed. “Oh yeah?”

“Yep.” She sat her empty glass on the coffee table. “I will answer your questions … if you answer mine.”

“All right.” He wet his lips, and continued speaking. Callie didn’t hear a word. That tongue, slick and tinged with alcohol, had quickly overwhelmed her the other night. What other things could it do?

“Callie?” He had been speaking. Shit.

“Yeah?”

“I asked if you wanted another.” He picked up her glass and waggled it in her direction.

“Is that your first question? Start with the easy ones. I like it. Yes, I’ll take another.”

He shook his head, but the grin hadn’t disappeared. Maybe he found intoxicated Callie charming. If so, it could prove very useful. She could learn more about him. She’d be safer with more knowledge, and that was her only reasoning for playing along. Or that’s what she told herself. Kind of.

“My question is still pending, doll: What else did you do at that hospital?”

She hated going first. “I was a medical assistant.”

“Why aren’t you anymore?” He was pouring drinks like he wasn’t also prying into the dark, tar-filled pit of regret she hid between her ribs.

“Don’t I get a question?”

“Quit being so pushy or I’m not buying you vodka again.” So he was thinking about this being a regular thing?

“I’m not drunk enough to give you details, but I’ll say having a meth addict for a brother makes it awful complicated to work in the medical field.” Bitterness oozed from her pores, but there was no point in attempting to stymy the flow now. Underneath that acridity overwhelming her body, a tiny anthill of relief reared from saying the words aloud.

“Makes sense.”

“It does?” She couldn’t quiet her incredulity. Unless you had an addict in the family, it was hard to relate. She’d had friends when she’d worked at the hospital. They’d told her to explain herself, break ties with her brother, and people would understand. But her life was not a made-for-TV movie, and it simply wasn’t that easy. In real life, bridges burned fantastically. Your family guilted and blackmailed you. You accepted it, remembered why loyalty mattered, and moved the fuck on.