Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (36 page)

“
I think you should stop.”

“
You
think
?” he said quietly, perhaps even huskily.

His hand continued up my inner thigh and I heard myself gasp. The moment I gasped Kingsley smiled again. The light particles around him were zigzagging like crazy. Like moths on crack.

“Please,” I said.

“
Please what?”

And then his hand lightly touched me between my legs and I reached down and grabbed his hand. I made a half-hearted effort to push it away, but his hand wouldn’t move. Still, I didn’t release his hand even as his thick middle finger gently stroked the fabric of my jeans. I wasn’t sure if he knew what he was stroking, but the big son-of-a-bitch had found the right spot.

Lucky guess.

I gasped again and made another effort to push his hand away, but this seemed to only inspire him to work his middle finger faster.

“You deserve happiness, Samantha Moon. You are not a monster. You are a sexy woman who has been dealt a very strange hand. But I have a surprise for you.”

“
What?” I heard myself ask. My hands were still on his hands. It had been so long since anyone had touched me down there. So long. Hell, I had forgotten what to do with my own hands.

“
That part of you
didn’t
die. In fact...” And now his one hand was expertly undoing my jeans, button by button, as if he had done this hundreds of times before, which he might very well have had.

Now he slipped his hands inside my jeans, and his strong, curious fingers found their way under my panties, and now they were moving down with a mind of their own, gently parting me open.

His middle finger touched me almost hesitantly, perhaps testing my readiness. Jesus, I was ready.

And then two things happened simultaneously.

Kingsley lowered his mouth to mine, kissing me harder than I have ever been kissed in my life, and his thick middle finger slipped deep inside me.

Chapter Thirty

I had an orgasm last night,
I wrote.

Good for you, Moon Dance.

My first in six years.

Must have been a hell of an orgasm.

I cried,
I wrote.
I didn’t think I would ever have another one.

I am happy for you, Moon Dance. But why would you think you couldn’t have one?

Because I hadn’t had one in six years.

Did you try to have one?

No, not really. Danny wouldn’t touch me any more, and I lost all desire to touch myself. It’s hard to feel sexy or sexual when your husband finds you repulsive.

And so you touched yourself last night?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I knew what I was about to write next would hurt Fang.
No,
I wrote.
I was with the werewolf.

There was a long pause. My IM box remained static, with no indication that Fang was even typing. Finally, an icon appeared in the box showing that he was busy typing. A second later his response appeared on screen.

I am happy for you, Moon Dance. He’s a lucky man.

A few months ago, after years of corresponding via chatrooms, Fang had expressed his love for me...even though we had yet to meet in person or even talk on the phone, for that matter. I wasn’t sure what to think about that. I had never met anyone off the internet, let alone dated from the internet. Besides, Fang was my friend, wasn’t he? He knew all the gory—and I do mean gory—details about me.

I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings, Fang.

I’m okay. Really, I am.

Well, you’re a big man.

You have no idea.

Are you flirting with me, Fang?

Me? Never!

I’m not so sure about that.

There was a short pause.
I would never flirt with another man’s woman.

I snorted, although he couldn’t see me snort.
And who says I’m another man’s woman?

I assumed....

You assumed incorrectly. I am still not there yet. Still not ready.
I paused in my typing, thought about my words, then added:
I’m not even sure I’m close.

Do you still think of yourself as your ex-husband’s wife?

Maybe a little. I still feel connected to him. Maybe it’s the kids that make me feel connected to him.

Even though he has rejected you in every way?

Well, it’s only been a few months, you know. I guess I still need time to heal.

We were silent some more. Lately, I had been thinking of taking up smoking. I hadn’t yet, but what the hell? It’s not like I was going to ever die of lung cancer, right? Anyway, right about now I could picture myself sucking on the end of a cig just to do something with my hands. I wondered how my body would react to the nicotine.

Well, there was only one way to find out.

Fang was writing something to me, and so I waited. As I waited I looked over at Monica, who was lying on her side and reading a novel. A vampire novel, no less. Maybe I should read one of those. Maybe I could learn a thing or two.

Fang deleted his message and started over. What he deleted, I will never know. A moment later, his message appeared:
Promise me one thing, Moon Dance.

Okay, I’ll try.

Before you commit to the werewolf—or any man, for that matter—please promise me that you will meet me first.

But I’m not committing to anyone, Fang.

Just promise.

Okay, I will consider it. But I have to admit, I’m confused. I thought we were friends.

For a friendship to work, both people have to want the same thing. Both people have to want to be friends.

I wrote,
And if one of the friends suddenly wants something more than friendship?

It changes things,
he wrote.

I don’t want things to change, Fang. I like talking to you. You are my outlet. You are my friend and my therapist and my confidant.

I want to be more, Moon Dance.

We were both silent for a long time. The hotel made typical hotel noises: a door slamming somewhere, the ding of the elevator around the corner, the endless drone of hundreds of air conditioners working hard against the warm Orange County night. On the bed nearby, Monica licked her fingers and turned the page. As she did so, her shoulder flexed a little. A narrow cord stood out on her neck. I found myself absently staring at it. Even from here, I could see it pulsating.

You there, Moon Dance?

Yes.

I want to meet you in two weeks.

I sat up suddenly. My heart, nearly useless in my chest, slammed hard once or twice against my ribs. My mouth instantly went dry.
Two weeks??
I reached for a nearby bottle of water and sipped from it, staring at Fang’s words. Finally, I answered him.

Okay,
I wrote.
Two weeks.

Chapter Thirty-one

We were at our favorite bar in Fullerton, called Hero’s.

I was with my sister, Mary Lou, and my client, Monica. The three of us were sitting on vinyl stools in front of a long, brass-topped bar. Our favorite mixologist was tending bar, a young guy of about thirty. The fact that he was also kind of cute contributed to the “favorite” part.

We were all sipping white wine. My sister Mary Lou was probably doing a little more than just sipping, since she was already on her third glass. It was Friday evening and the bar was hopping. This was also Casual Friday, apparently, and so Mary Lou, who worked for a small insurance agency in Placentia, was wearing jeans and a bright yellow tee shirt. For the uninitiated, Casual Friday is a sort of mini-national holiday for office workers everywhere. Occurring only four times a month, Casual Friday is commemorated by the wearing of jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, and the consumption of store-bought donuts and bagels. Homemade brownies are also acceptable. From what I understand, the day usually begins with a general air of optimism and hope, and deteriorates rapidly into a serious need to drink something strong and hard. I often reminded my older sister that every day was Casual Friday for me. And I did so now.

“Are you
trying
to depress me?” she said.

“
Not clinically,” I said. “But a tear or two is always nice. Besides, I have to gloat about something. There’s not much else to gloat about these days.”

Mary Lou didn’t like her job. Unfortunately, she never did anything about it, other than bitch. My philosophy is this: Life is too short to work another minute at a job you don’t love. Unless, of course, you’re a vampire. And then that philosophy goes out the window.

Anyway, with my client sitting with us, my sister and I kept our conversation to mundane topics. Just three fairly cute girls, sitting in a bar, wrapped in secrets and pain and heartache.

Good times.

Mary Lou knocked back drink number three and waved the bartender over. He caught her eye, nodded, and reached under the counter for the bottle of wine. As he did so, I caught my sister adjusting her bra.

“
Why are you adjusting your bra?” I asked.

“
I’m not adjusting my bra,” she said. “I’m adjusting my boobs.”

“
Happily married women don’t adjust their boobs in front of cute bartenders.”

“
Happily married women have boobs, too,” she said.

“
They also have husbands.”

“
He’s coming over—shh, quiet!”

Indeed, he was, grinning at us easily. He had short brown hair. Big brown eyes. Dimples in his cheeks and chin. He wore a combination of metal and leather bracelets, which jangled as he filled Mary Lou’s glass with more wine. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing tattoos that went down to his wrists and beyond. Some of the tats crawled along the back of his hands. His ears were pierced with silver studs, and he wore a leather strap around his neck, anchored by two huge shark teeth.

“Just a little more,” said Mary Lou, slapping his hand lightly. “Pretty please.”

Oh, brother,
I thought, and caught Monica’s eye. She smiled at me and sipped her wine, enjoying my sister’s retarded attempt at flirtation. Myself, I wasn’t enjoying it so much.

“
If I give you more, young lady, then I have to give everyone else more,” he said. “And if I give everyone else more, then my boss will fire me.”

“
Oh, poo. You’re no fun.”

He winked at me and left.

So far, Monica had remained silent and inexpressive. I sensed that her personality had been beaten out of her by her ex-husband. Sure, she had opened up to me, but not so much with other people. With that said, I suspected she didn’t like my sister, either. The excessive drinking might have had something to do with it. Also, when someone laughed particularly loud, or brushed up against her, she jumped. And so she stayed close to me, like a trained puppy, never more than a foot or so away from my elbow. She felt safe with me. She
should
feel safe with me. Hell, I felt safe with me.

While we drank and talked, I stayed alert for any suspicious activity. Her ex-husband, prior to his unfortunate run-in with the bulletproof glass, had indicated that he had succeeded in hiring someone to carry out his threat on her.

Monica touched my forearm and leaned over and whispered into my ear. “I need to use the restroom.”

I patted her hand. “Okay.” I turned to Mary Lou. “We’re going to the restroom.”

Mary Lou nodded and kept her eyes on the bartender. Monica and I left and I held her hand as I threaded our way through the crowded bar. She kept about as close to me as she possibly could. Inside the surprisingly uncrowded bathroom, I waited outside the stall for her to finish her business. As I waited, I had a very bad feeling I couldn’t shake. I looked over my shoulder, but we were alone. I frowned.

Shortly, we were working our way back through the bar to where we found an ashen-faced Mary Lou staring at us. We took our seats on the stools next to her, and as I sat, Mary Lou leaned over and whispered in my ear: “There was a man here.”

“Who?”

She shook her head. My sister looked completely shaken. “I don’t know. He came up next to me and ordered a drink.”

“So?”

“
He looked right at me and smiled...the most horrible smile I have ever seen.”

“
You’re not drunk are you?”

“
No, dammit.” She kept shaking her head. “He looked... wrong. Off. Evil. He looked what I would imagine a killer would look like.”

“
A killer?”