Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(102)

“Cold. So cold.” Goose bumps pimpled over her bare skin. She scooted toward where he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping herself around his hips, seeking his body’s warmth.

He should get the heavy sleeping bag from the closet. He should cover her with it and leave the room. He should, he should, he should. He didn’t. He pulled off his boots and eased into the bed. She latched onto him before he fully reclined.

She molded herself to him. His shoulder her pillow, her arm around his middle, one of her legs draped over his thighs, her knee just a few miniscule inches from his groin. Everything vanished, except the vivid sensation of her feminine curves burrowing into him, seeking his safety, his comfort, his warmth. She was cool where he was on fire. She was soft where he couldn’t bend. She was sweet where he felt bitter.

She fit into his arms, against his body, and into his soul like she was designed especially for him. He wanted to believe he could have a happy ending with her, but his reality was a cruel, hard place where good things just didn’t happen. Or if they did, they never lasted.

*

Bzzzz.

Evanee’s muscles clenched, and she startled from the sudden sound of a phone vibrating.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“Shhh… Honey, it’s just my cell,” Lathan whispered against her hair, his breath warm against her skin.

Tension evaporated. What exactly was it about his voice that calmed her? Was it the timbre, the accent… It wasn’t quite an accent, more like a lisp, but not? Maybe it wasn’t his voice. Maybe it was him calling her Honey. Maybe it was him taking care of her—not advantage of her—when she had been as rational and coherent as a zombie. The bleeding feather tattoo on his cheek made him appear more intimidating than any man she had ever met, and yet he had saved her from Junior, and that bought her complete trust. Something not one person in her life had ever earned.

“It’s just Gill letting me know he’s arrived. He’ll be handling things, or at least seeing that they get handled privately.” He slid away from her, just far enough to look down at her.

His pale-gray eyes stood out against his tan. No, it wasn’t a tan. He was thickly freckled. Seriously freckled. Boyishly freckled. She should’ve realized that from the rich reddish-brown of his hair. A smile tugged at her soul. How could she think his tattoo frightening when paired with a face full of friendly freckles?

“You’re feeling better.”

It wasn’t a question, but she nodded anyway.

“I’ve got to let Gill in. He’s gonna have some questions for you.”

“Questions for me? About Junior?” She hated the tremor in her voice and cleared her throat. “I don’t want to press charges or anything. That’d just piss everyone off.” Not only would Junior be mad, Sheriff Rob would be angry, and Mom would be furious—at her—for causing Junior trouble.

While she spoke, Lathan’s gaze focused on her mouth. The way he looked at her reminded her of how a man concentrated on a woman’s lips before coming in for a kiss—like he was calculating angle, pressure, distance to the target.

“Not about Junior—”

Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

“Take a few minutes—however long you need—then come downstairs.” He got out of bed and headed for the doorway. A colossal black dog rose from the corner and followed Lathan. A shudder ripped through her.

That she’d had a nightmare wasn’t new; that she remembered it was astounding. The dream had felt so real, and the part about waking up with the eye in her hand—total mind fuck. Only when she woke up in his bed with him staring down at her did she realize the entire thing had been one long, gruesome dream.

Evanee heard Lathan open the door downstairs, heard him talking, but his words were a low murmur of indistinguishable sound.

“Where’re your gloves?” The guy—must’ve been Gill—didn’t quite shout the words, but his tone of disbelief carried up the stairs. “What the fuck does it matter how loud I talk? The louder the better, right?”

Lathan said something, his voice hushed and quiet.

“She? You’ve got a woman up there? In your bed?” Astonishment laced with consternation dominated Gill’s voice.

Time to go downstairs before Gill got the exact wrong idea, which wouldn’t be hard—until a few moments ago, she had been contentedly snuggling with Lathan. He was the bright side to the whole Junior situation. A situation she was gonna have to deal with.

Her stomach suddenly felt wrong. Sweat exploded from her pores, dripped down her face, soaked her clothes. Her skin flamed and itched like she’d rolled in a poison ivy patch. Her insides grew hotter than asphalt on a one-hundred-degree day.

It couldn’t be the stomach flu. Not now. A groan of impending calamity escaped her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Lathan stood in the doorway.

“I’m going to be sick.” Somehow, she got out of bed, got into the bathroom, and got draped over the porcelain bowl. Thank God and all his fat little angels, the toilet was hygienically clean.

Her stomach contracted. Her throat opened. She wretched a cruel sound halfway between a cough and a sob, but nothing came out. Stomach contracted. Throat opened. Again and again, her innards tried to turn themselves inside out.

A cold cloth pressed against her neck.

She wanted to thank Lathan for that small kindness, but something inside her was wrong. Really wrong. Not just I’ve-got-the-flu wrong, but I’m-going-to-die wrong. Part of her felt light, untethered from her body, like she was a helium balloon floating into the sky. The other part felt her muscles, her organs tensing, fighting, rallying to save her. Save her from what?