Sugar Skulls (15 page)

“He isn’t
my
anything.” The accusation makes me sick to my stomach. When I close my eyes I can still feel Adonis’s hands cramming another tab into my mouth whether I want it or not. “Damon brought him in.”

Micah rocks slowly from one foot to the other. “Damon’s the suit, I take it.”

“Stuffed shirt,” I say, eyes closing. “And he’s going to track us down.”

“Not here.” With his back to me, Micah gestures to the copper grid all around us. “It’s a poor man’s Faraday cage. Blocks electromagnetic signals. It’ll keep anything he’s got from finding your nanotech here.” Some pride creeps into his voice, despite the lingering resentment.

“That’s . . . good to hear.” I wish I could appreciate it more, except it’s all sounding like a lot of blah-blah-blah techno-jargon, like when Sasha gets wound up over a new piece of equipment. Everything feels heavier, and my words are more slurred than I’d expected.

Something’s off. Way off.

He finally turns around, and all the color drains from his face. He’s at my side again instantly, Dr. Micah replacing the hurt-and-angry hero. He places his hand against my forehead. “Take off all the cold packs. The fever peaked. You’re gonna crash.”

“You’re quite the fortune-teller.” Everything he said was true. I just didn’t realize it would be like running full tilt into a brick wall. I don’t even manage to get the first of the packs off before I realize it’s a lost cause.

M

Fucking applejack.
I kept her from OD’ing by fire, and now she’s smashing into a wall of icy withdrawal. I pull down the neck of her shirt and rip the remaining gel-pack from her collarbone.
Last thing she needs is more cold.
I lay her on the cot, shoving what’s left of her outfit aside. She’s unresponsive.

“Vee? Vee! It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Bedside manner first. Never be mean to the patient. Textbook.

First, I grab an old-school syringe and load it up from the electrolyte pack. I swab her arm with the rubbing alcohol and give her the shot. Something to help her fight it off. Load up a syringe and repeat. She’ll need as much as she can take. Withdrawal is a bitch on wheels. I check her pulse, and she swats my hand away. Pretty sure it was unintentional. Not 100 percent sure, though. I put one ear to her chest. Her heart’s pounding, just like at the Palace.

Focus, Micah.

The next hour passes as I check her vitals, load her up with vitamins, get her to sip water when she’s coherent enough to raise her head. It’s a hit-or-miss procedure. She misses the bucket and hits me twice with the water and vitamins on the way back up, but her temperature drops three degrees from the applejack peak.

I hold off on the next dose of Rivitocin as long as possible, hoping she can grab some meager rest in the meantime. But I can’t let the nanotech reassert itself until the applejack is out of her system, otherwise all this was for nothing. Loading up the injector, I press it to her neck and dose her. The tremors start instantly, and her body convulses in my arms.

She’s gonna hate somebody before all this is done. Hope it’s not me.

“God fucking dammit” is just the beginning of the stream of curses coming out of her. She grinds her face into the front of my shirt, so half of them are lost to my chest, but their meaning is pretty clear.

“Hey. I know this sucks—”

“No, you fucking do not know.” With my sleeves still bunched up in her hands, she pulls back far enough for me to see that there’s a trickle of blood working its way out of her nose.

“You need to shut up and stay hydrated.”
I do
not
want to do this right now.
“And, for the record, this is a lot better than the alternative. So listen to me and drink the goddamn water.”

I point the bottle at her face, and she begrudgingly snatches it from my hand, her hand still trembling. “Go fuck yourself, right off a fucking bridge.” At least she’s aware enough to drink it slowly.

I know it’s the drugs. I know it’s
mostly
the drugs.
“Soon as we’re done here, I’ll get right on it.”
Bedside manner, my ass.

When her core temperature starts dropping, I grab a heavy blanket and bundle her up as best I can, like a suffering little bitchy burrito. It’s hours before I can spare a minute to change out of the still-damp jeans and shirt I wore to the concert. My ribs throb from four days of abuse, and stripping away my bandages and used-up gel-packs is one more aching reminder.

We burn through my electrolyte shots and a lot more water, plenty of which comes back with a vengeance. We use up the Rivitocin as well, each shot rousing Vee in worse spirits than the last. She goes through three one-use toothbrushes, the kind that come preloaded with toothpaste, and throws the third one at my head when she’s done with it. Face against my pillow, she spews vitriol until unconsciousness takes her once more.

In the resulting quiet, I realize we’ve been left totally alone. No sirens, no special-ops thugs. The Faraday cage is working like a charm.
I mean, I knew it would, obviously . . . But confirmation is still a pretty good feeling.

And then, there’s nothing more to be done for her, and I just sit beside her, praying it’s been enough.

V

When I wake up, I’m coiled in Micah’s lap like Little Dead Thing. I feel about the same as that cat usually looks. I don’t stretch. I don’t move.

I don’t want to wake him up.

He’s out cold, head resting against the wall and mouth hanging ajar. Dark shadows carve out spaces under his eyes, and he snores a bit with every breath. I don’t know how long either of us has been sleeping, but I have very clear memories of every horrible thing I said to him as the drugs worked their way through my system.

God, Vee. You’re lucky he didn’t punt you out the door.

I’m twisted up in the borrowed clothes, in the blanket he used to swaddle me, but it doesn’t take much to ease a hand out, to push some of that blond hair away from his face. It’s the first time I’ve seen him—really
seen
him—without club lighting or stage lighting or emergency lighting painting his features with unnatural color.

Somehow, for the first time since all this started, he’s real to me.

I wait a moment to see if he jumps up like a ninja; I’ve seen him move, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he rocketed off the bed and across the room in one leap. But exhaustion trumps everything else, because his breathing barely hitches before the soft snoring resumes.

Good.

It gives me the chance to stare at him without having to worry about how I look or where we are or what the fuck comes next. Hard to concentrate, when he’s got one arm under me, and the other rests on my rib cage. His unbandaged hand is rough with calluses, and yet he’d been so gentle every time he’d touched me.

I can’t resist running a finger along the inside of his palm; but even that tiny movement is like being skinned alive. I can feel
everything
, now that the applejack is out of my system. The world moves around me. Through me. Muscles are sore, and my bones are glass, but I’m not shattered. Not broken.

Not yet, anyway. If Damon gets his hands on me, all bets are off.

Micah said we were safe. I vaguely remember an explanation about the insane amount of copper crisscrossing around us. I hope he’s right. I hope he’s not sorry he brought me here.

It’s odd, to feel hopeful about anything just now. For days, all I’d secretly hoped was that I would see him again. Have the chance to say something to him. And now he’s here. I’m here.

And I don’t have the right words, even if he was awake to hear them.

For once, I’m not trying to sneak out of the bed without getting caught. This time, I’m the one wearing the borrowed clothes. This is all new territory, at least for me. Looking up at Micah, at his shirt, I know exactly where Bryn’s name is tattooed.

Was she here, with you? She didn’t look like a spitting-and-swearing kind of girl. So what the fuck are you doing getting tangled up with me?

As though ready to answer that question, his eyes flicker open. Blue. Piercing blue, right through the heart of me. I should sit up. Put some space between us. But I’m only looking up at him and trying to remember which muscles it takes to smile. “Morning . . . I think.”

“Probably.” He pulls his arm from under my back, retreating, then rubbing the sleep from his eyes like a mountain giant waking from a thousand-year nap. There’s gravel in his voice, too, which does unexpected things to my pulse. “How are you feeling?”

Hard to tell if that last bit is politeness or genuine concern. It’s certainly an invitation to move off him, to assess my various bruises and scrapes, to escape his steady blue gaze.

If I sit up, if I pull away, he’ll do the same.

And I’m not ready for that yet.

M

She swallows hard before answering, “I’m fine. And sorry. I mean . . . I’m sorry about everything. Every single thing I said.” Her voice lowers a notch before she adds, “And I’m really fucking terrible at apologies, so take that for what it’s worth.”

She’s okay. Push away the bitchiness and the cruelty and every outburst. Be grateful. She’s okay.

Better than okay. She’s alive, in your arms. Smiling. Lips begging to be kissed again, and for the first time. Vee.

I run my fingers through tousled ringlets, rough skin occasionally snagging on her silken hair, my gaze dancing across her face.

“Accepted.” And I pull her closer, letting her body slide against mine, squeezing her tight, her head nestling on my shoulder.

“Whatever you do, don’t let me go,” she tells the hollow spot at the base of my throat.

Closing my eyes, I stroke her neck with two fingers, just below her ear. “You think I went through all that just to kick you out when you’re okay?” I pause, trying to find the words. “I’m so glad you’re all right. You don’t even know how much.”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” She’s got her mouth pressed to my neck now, so the words are half spoken and half kissed. “I never expected to look down and see you standing right there.”

“To be fair, I asked your poster if I was crazy to try that. But you didn’t dissuade me.”

“Not surprising.” She glances at the mostly naked and glammed-up version of herself hanging on my door. “The girl in that picture doesn’t give two shits about anyone.”

I tuck one hand under her chin, lifting it so our eyes meet again. “The girl in that picture kicked a guy in the ribs, a guy who did the same to me a few nights before. I doubt that’s a coincidence. The girl in the picture tossed the city’s power grid into a meat grinder to save me.” Our lips almost brush as I speak.

“I would do it again, too. Without hesitating.” Her chin tilts up so that our mouths graze, then the whisper breaks into a smile. “Except I’d kick Adonis again. In the junk.”

I laugh, pulling back ever so slightly.
Kiss her. Kiss her.
Every fiber, every instinct . . . hell, even Rational Mind is chanting it. “Vee, I—”

“Don’t,” is all she says before her lips find mine.

Fireworks go off in my brain. We’re back in the alcove in an instant, stealing gasps for air between fervent kisses, desperate to keep the other right here, ours, for as long as we can.

We slide down onto the cot together, lips locked and ravenous, bodies close. Achingly, tantalizingly close. I try to be gentle with her, rolling her onto her back and pressing against her, letting her hair splay out around her. A goddess, reborn.

Vee’s having none of the gentleness. Her hands run up my shirt. Her nails carve burning trails down my back. I slip my arms under her, burying my fingers in that untamed mane of hair, pulling it. She slowly comes undone beneath me, moaning softly, tilting her head back and offering her neck to me.

I kiss along her jawline, stopping to tease her with cool breaths along the glistening skin. Her body arches against me. An invitation. I inhale at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing in the musk of sweat with lingering wisps of something fruity, all those electrolytes suffusing her skin.

And she tastes better than she smells, if that’s possible.

Impatient, she tugs at my undershirt and I lift my arms, my lips barely leaving her neck as the fabric flies past. Her hands roam possessively over my chest, my shoulders, my upper arms, and she licks me once, twice, before biting my neck.
Fuck me
. Her teeth graze my skin the next time. It’s like she’s doing her best to leave marks on me.

I wrap my hands in her shirt and pull it off to one side, exposing collarbone, shoulder, the top of her arm. When I return the favor and let my teeth scrape over her skin, she makes a throaty noise. Then she’s sitting up, pushing me over, climbing on top of me. Her arched back is more than an invitation to slide my hands over her taut skin. Not waiting for me to undress her, she grabs the bottom of the shirt, whips it off, and tosses it aside. She rests her palms on my chest, her right hand covering my tattoo.

My eyes explore her, and she rolls her hips slowly against me, teasing or savoring, I’m not sure. She moves forward until her chest is pressed against mine, hotter than anything the applejack could offer. Our lips reunite, hungry. Her hair drapes down over us, curtaining our faces, blocking out the world.

It’s just the two of us, finally giving in.

My hands roam her back, stroking along her spine and trying to banish the memories of long nights in that corset. I trace fingertip trails along her bare skin, mapping the geography of her body, rises and valleys, mentally marking every spot that elicits a gasp. Lips wander with abandon, my kisses fluttering across her collarbone and chest, tongue trailing over sensitive skin, swirling and lapping and reveling in every inch of her.