Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3)

Eventide (Dark Ink Chronicles #3) Page 15

Just as fast as the vision appeared, it vanishes. I lose my breath for a second, and I choke. The sensation I’d had moments earlier seems so real. I blink, look around. I’m back in my room, in my apartment above Inksomnia. Why am I being tormented? Rising from the floor, I breathe. What was that? Was it real? I’m so confused, and the pounding inside my head returns. Quickly, I grab a pair of discarded jeans thrown across the back of a chair, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and boots and hurry out of my bedroom. I pass by Chaz, lying on his bed close to the hearth. He stares at me, lowers his head, and growls low in his throat.

I spare him the slightest of glares and leave the apartment. In seconds I am just another body slipping through the streets of Savannah.

The night air is chillier than it has been. I’ve been on the streets for hours, and I find myself in a half-packed parking lot of some random club. I don’t recognize it, but that’s nothing new. Clubs pop up all over Savannah, and they close just as fast. In some weird extraterrestrial font, the bar sign reads AREA 51.

The club is just a plain gray building with no windows, and from the smell of extreme marsh and brine hanging on the breeze, I guess it’s close to the river. The scent is nauseating today, and I choke back a gag. I feel like I’m chewing on mucky saw grass. I make my way to the front door. Just as I reach it, a couple steps out. Chick. Dude. I don’t see faces, features. Only silhouettes. I step inside.

Bodies. Heartbeats. Laughter. Some cosmic weird tunes echoing off the walls—almost like the sounds a supposed spaceship would make. Some dude pushes by me. His T-shirt says THEY ARE OUT THERE.

“Hey gorgeous,” some guy says beside me. “You look lost. Want a drink?”

I glance at him wordlessly.

The guy chuckles, and his eyes divert to the ink on my cheek. His gaze travels down to my hands, where only the tail of my dragon wraps around my fingers, then back to my face. “Sweet tats.” He glances at my shirt. “So what does Inksomnia mean?”

I lean in close, and his nostrils flare with male hormones. “It means fuck off,” I say sweetly, blink, and move back. My gaze locks on to his. The thump of his fast-paced heart resonates inside my head. I can almost feel the blood rushing through his veins. My mouth waters. Maybe I shouldn’t rush him away.

“Hey Aaron, come on,” another guy says behind him, grabbing his arm. “We’re late, man.” The guy flashes me a shy smile. I think I scare him.

Aaron is transfixed. He can’t move and his stare is locked on to mine in fascination. I lick my lips, and I watch his pupils dilate. Goddamn. I don’t even have to say anything. Ole Aaron is ready to screw my brains out right here and now. It wouldn’t take much, and this game is just too…invigorating. Powerful. I haven’t even been in the club for fifteen friggin’ minutes.

“Aaron, man,” his friend urges, avoiding my glare. “Come on.”

I lean in very close to Aaron, and my lips brush the shell of his ear. “Your loss,” I whisper.

Aaron’s eyes widen as his friend pulls him through the crowd and away from me.

My eyes immediately scan the crowd. Searching. Seeking…something.

“Is that what you’re into?” a voice says close to me. “Geeks?”

I turn and look up. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Lean build. Sluggish heartbeat.

“Maybe,” I answer, and lean closer. “I’m into a lot of things.”

The stranger’s pupils dilate, just a fraction.

Just then, a siren goes off overhead, followed by an announcement over a loudspeaker. When I search the room, I notice some guy wearing a THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE T-shirt and a big goofy-ass grin standing at the mic. “We’ve had another sighting! This one near Mobile, Alabama, and more than twelve people saw the lights!”

A huge roar went through the crowd as they cheer. I can’t help but glance around at the people packed into the club.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mutter.

A large hand skims my hip. “You wanna leave?” the guy says against my ear. “With me?”

I brush his stomach with my fingertips. Not an ounce of fat. Nothing but rigid muscle. “Hell, yeah,” I say in a low voice. “And don’t make me beg.”

The stranger stares at me for a moment, grins, then grasps my hand. I allow him to lead me through the crowd of X-Files dorks and to the front door. We push out into the night, and I only vaguely notice it’s warmer than usual. Warm and muggy, as though rain is close, hanging in the air. Threatening.

I like threatening.

The swoosh of his blood through his veins echoes inside my head. I hear it. Feel it.

Taste it.

And goddamn, I want it.

We’re walking beneath the shadows of the overhanging oaks now, and in midstride the stranger stops, turns, and slides his hands over my hips, pulling me against him. “What’s your name?” he asks seductively. His fingers trail up my ribs. In the darkness, I can’t see anything but his silhouette.

As I stare at him, a blank, hollow feeling washes over me. Forcing my brain to concentrate, I think. It’s no use. I’m empty. Tapped out. In other words, I have no fucking clue who I am. Why can’t I remember my own name? I look around me as if I expect my name to be written on something, like the trunk of a tree, the side of a building. I see nothing. I know even less.

“Hey,” the guy says, leaning his head close to mine. I am still staring at him, but blankly. After a few moments, his features focus. “It’s okay.” He begins to walk backward, pulling me along. “Doesn’t matter.” He stops, turns, and backs me against a moss-covered brick wall. It’s dark. No lights. A few sparse drops of rain fall through the canopy of oak. The scent of brine and wet vegetation permeates the air. The stranger lowers his head and kisses me.

I kiss him back.

Unfamiliar hands slide up my stomach and over my breasts, and I moan and push into him. We kiss, grope, touch until we’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against mine. “Wanna go for a ride?”

I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I’m doing. I want something. And it’s something he’s not going to want to freely give. I’ll have to take it.

I will take it.

“Yeah,” I say breathily. “Let’s go.”

I see a white flash in the darkness, and it’s the stranger’s smile. Without words, he pulls me away from the wall and leads me down the sidewalk, around the corner to a row of historic townhomes. On the street, a motorcycle is parked. He pulls me toward it and hands me the spare helmet strapped to the back.

As I pull the helmet onto my head, a vague familiarity washes over me. I’ve done this before. With this guy? Another? Whatever, I’ve done it enough that I don’t even hesitate. The stranger eases onto the bike, I slide on behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. In moments we are on some street, heading in some direction or another. I don’t really know or care.

In the end, what I want will be waiting there. Away from the crowd. In private.

I lean against the stranger’s back as we ride, and I feel his heart beating against me. A craving gnaws at me, stirs something feral within me that is almost uncontrollable. I slowly lower my hands from his waist to his crotch, and the hard bulge I find lets me know he’s ready for me.

Only, he’s not. He’s so fucking not.

His hand leaves one handlebar and covers mine, pressing mine hard against his cock. I can feel anticipation, smell his pheromones, and hear his heart rate increase.

I wait. We continue.

Down a winding two-lane road we travel, and I’ve no idea where we are. Huge mossy oaks drape the street, and we’re hugging tight curves and the river as we go. The bike speeds up, dangerous, reckless, and I find myself liking the feeling.

After one more curve the bike slows and veers right; we pull into a long oyster-shell drive. A small, older concrete house on the river sits beneath several trees, and a long front porch lies open to air. All is dark, save the single yard light high on a power pole. It casts shadows that dance and play with the slight breeze rolling in off the marsh.

The sexual energy literally rolls off of the stranger. I have to wonder if he would be as turned on if he knew I could snap his head off like a dandelion bloom.

I dismount the bike, and he does the same. Immediately, he pulls me to him. Hungrily, his mouth takes mine, his hands move over my ass, up my spine, and the whole while he’s touching me, kissing me, I notice—feel—one thing: his heart. I smell one thing: his blood.

The more frantic he becomes, the more ravenous I grow.

He’s groping me now, through my jeans, pressing his hard cock against me. Somehow, we’re on the porch, and the only sounds are the rush of air through the trees, his heartbeat, and his excited, breathless groans as I press my hand against his stiff ridge. It’s all a game. To me, anyway. It’s the only way I can get what I want. What I need.

But I can’t take any more. Not one more fucking second. His blood rushes with each pump of his heart, and it’s so intense it resonates literally inside my head. Taunting me. Begging me. My head begins to pound, my mouth waters. Shards of light intrude behind my eyes as the pain intensifies, and suddenly, I no longer feel his hands on me. I see him though, barely, and through my fog of delirium, I lunge. We struggle. He screams. All is silent.

A suffocating black shadow of agony swallows me whole.

“Damn it, Riley, wake up!”

Hands on me. Loud voices. I jerk my eyes open and stare, pissed off and confused. In one fluid motion I leap, shove the hands off me, and dart to the corner of the room. So fast is the movement that I barely feel my feet hit the floor. Only now, at the far end of the room, does my vision clear and I see the kid standing beside the bed.

A boy. Dark hair. Lean. Tall. Looks familiar. My brain strains, trying to remember.

My brother.

“Ri, what’s wrong with you?” he asks. Worry laces each word.

Slowly, I take in the room. It’s my bedroom. I’m in my apartment. Confusion webs my brain like a cocoon. Bits and pieces of memory filter in. “I, uh,” I stutter. “Had a bad dream, bro. That’s all. You scared the hell out of me.” I want to be alone, want him to go away. But there he stands, looking at me. His brows pinch together in concern. I’m sick of him worrying about me so much. It’s starting to get on my last fucking nerve.