Midnight Run, page 2
part #2 of The Midnight Trilogy Series
There was a lot of very strange behavior on display, all of it fascinating, some of it disquieting. The men and the women seemed to skip all the mating rituals and go straight to stimulating sex. Some not even stimulating.
Her eye was caught by a couple at the edge of the Pit. The strobe lights on the ceiling illuminated them, and then cast them in shadow, flickering. They were fused at the hips, moving in time with the beat. The woman’s skirt rode up to expose a bare hip. Surely she was wearing—what did they call them? Thongs? Surely…no…good heavens!
Claire tried not to peer and felt her face flush as she looked away. But she’d seen. The woman was naked under her skirt and those gyrations were…they were actually—oh my goodness—they were making love. Having sex, she corrected herself. On the dance floor!
She’d lived so long with illness, encased in a sex-free zone, that it was as if all those things she’d missed growing up—little-girl flirting with round-faced beardless harmless boys, those first closed-mouth kisses, holding hands in the movies, making out on the family couch, the first timid sexual encounters with a boy as breathless and scared as she was—all those steps on the way to becoming a woman were concentrated tonight in a fog of hormones and sweat and music.
It was all a little overwhelming, but this is what she wanted. What she’d quit her job as librarian at the family foundation for. What she’d argued with her father to have. This was Life. Something else she’d fought so fiercely to have.
She was officially healthy. She’d done it. She’d survived. She was never going to be sick again, she could feel it. Life pulsed in her veins, tingled in her fingertips. Tonight for the first time in years, she could see the road ahead. Or rather, a road ahead, something more than bleak, pain-filled days and anguished, solitary nights. She was going to catch up on time lost and live every second to the fullest.
Today she’d moved out of her father’s house and out of his over-protective embrace. Today she was going to start snatching back all those years that had been stolen from her.
Mr. Hairless weaved his way over to them, eyes half slitted shut, thin torso writhing, belly so flat it was almost concave. The music had turned hip hop and the decibel level went up a notch. He hooked an arm around Lucy’s neck.
“Hey baby,” he crooned. He nuzzled Lucy’s neck, dancing in place. “Wanna fuck?” Claire wouldn’t have heard it above the music, but the DJ was suddenly between songs and she heard him clearly.
Claire opened her mouth, indignant, to tell the creep off when Lucy laughed. She rubbed against Mr. Hairless’s chest. “We already did, honey. Two weeks ago, ‘member? I might be up for another round if you ask nicely, but let’s dance first.”
The music started up again and Lucy and her romantic suitor drifted off to the dance floor, the Pit. Apt name for it, Claire thought. It was indeed a pit, at least ten feet below the bar area. The flashing lights picked out writhing limbs. The people were closely packed, features indistinct in the pulsing strobe lights. Arms writhing about the dancers heads made it look like a den of snakes.
Lucy and Mr. Hairless had already disappeared from view. The Pit was enormous. If Claire wanted to contact Lucy, she’d have to wade into it—she shuddered at the thought.
“Wanna…?” a man shouted in her ear.
“What?” She whipped her head around and met a grinning fatuous face. The man had gelled slicked-back hair and a tiny little soul patch under his lower lip. She could smell hair gel, deodorant, a strong aftershave and, rising above those, the acrid smell of body odor. Surely he hadn’t just said—
“—dance?” he shouted again.
Claire slumped in relief. She had no idea what to answer a man who asked her to have sex. She knew exactly what to say to a man who asked her to dance.
The idea of descending into the Pit made her skin crawl. It was one thing to people-watch, it was another thing entirely to be trapped in a crush of writhing bodies. She forced herself to smile. “Thanks, but I think I’ll sit this one out.”
There.
That was a nice reply, one she’d read in a novel. Of course the novel had been set in the Regency period, when presumably there were discrete dances, one after another, instead of the constant pounding noise issuing from the speakers. But her nice reply was lost on the man.
He leaned in close. Much too close. “What…say?” A generous amount of spittle came out on the ‘s’ and Claire’s smile slipped a notch.
“No!” she shouted. Then, because politeness had been drummed into her, she added, “Thank you!”
The man shrugged and moved five seats down to ask another woman.
Three men approached her, one after another, moving away when she shook her head.
The fourth man was very handsome and he knew it. Dark, well-cut hair, dressed in an elegant narrow-cut suit with no shirt. What was with that? Had men’s shirts suddenly gone out of fashion while she’d been ill?
His clean-cut features were smiling but the hair on Claire’s forearms stood up. She’d spent many years—too many years—sick and vulnerable. She was fine, now—just fine, thank you—but life looks different when you’re flat on your back and all you can see is the ceiling.
You can’t see trouble coming when you’re on your back.
Claire had learned, very early, which nurses could be counted on to take care not to cause pain and which secretly liked hurting a little girl who couldn’t defend herself. Which doctors took care to warm the stethoscope first and which treated her like an interesting piece of meat, fodder for another scientific paper.
Consequently, she had a very sophisticated and accurate Creepometer and right now the Creepometer’s arrow was vibrating wildly in the Red Alarm Zone and buzzers were going off.
Claire could sense—could almost smell—cruelty and craziness and that smell was coming now off the man asking her if she wanted to dance.
He was good-looking and elegant, clearly well-to-do and successful. But his eyes glittered. His teeth were too white and his lips too red. He licked his lips with a sharp, pointed tongue. He was biting his back teeth so hard his jaw muscles were jumping. Everything about him was tightly wound, muscles so tense she could see the grain.
He gave her an air kiss and everything inside Claire recoiled.
“Hey, pretty lady.” Confident smile, what he thought was charm oozing from every pore. “All alone? We can fix that. Come on and dance with me.”
He leaned down to her, red mouth open, and Claire tried not to panic. Inside her head she was wind-milling her arms to get away from him, screaming her head off. Outwardly, she gave a tight smile and shrugged.
“I’m not alone,” she protested. He tugged at her arm as if he hadn’t heard her, and she raised her voice, trying to keep alarm out of it.
“I’m with a friend. She’s…ah…” Claire craned her neck to peer down into the Pit, but Lucy was nowhere to be seen. Claire pretended to catch someone’s eye and waved. “…down there, dancing. She’ll be back in a minute. I’m fine, thank you.”
Now get lost. Fast.
“I don’t think so.” The creep’s eyes were heavy-lidded, drooping further as he leaned in close, whiskey fumes and bad breath making her turn her head sharply. Claire’s very cells scrambled to get away from him. “I don’t think you’re with a friend, babe. I think you need a friend. I think you need me.”
His fingers closed on her shoulder. His hand was strong and when he pulled, she had to close her fingers on the counter to resist his pull. He tugged harder.
Her heart was beating wildly now. She looked around desperately. There must have been five hundred people in The Warehouse, though no one was paying attention to them. Surely he couldn’t just—just abduct her here, amidst a thousand people?
And yet that was exactly what Rory Gavett had done all those years ago. Kidnapped her out from under the noses of the hospital nurses.
Her head swam and she fought tears. She tried to pull away, but it only made his fingers dig more deeply into her arm. His smile widened and she suddenly knew. He liked inflicting pain. He got off on cruelty. Claire bit her lips to keep from screaming.
She glanced around wildly for help, but everyone was watching the action in the Pit. Her eyes caught those of a man on the other side of the U-shaped bar. A big man, totally untrendy—short sandy unstyled ungelled hair, sipping an unfashionable beer. His shoulders strained against a black tee shirt, which cupped large, hard biceps. Could he help? His eyes met hers. He certainly looked strong enough to deal with her tormentor.
She closed her eyes against the pain. Mr. Cruel and Creepy was digging his fingers into her shoulder. Horribly, he’d come up close to her and was rubbing against her. She could actually feel his erect penis. She tried to pull away, but he was holding on to her tightly.
Claire looked around again. The big man was nowhere to be seen, his seat vacant. Well, of course. He’d left or gone off to dance. It was crazy to feel so bereft.
“Come on, babe, no use being shy.” Creepy’s breath was hot in her ear. Claire felt nauseous. He tugged again, sharply and she bit her lips to keep from crying out. An expression of pain would only excite him more.
“Get lost. The lady’s with me,” a deep voice said from high above her head.
It happened all at once. The pressure in her shoulder eased and then was removed altogether. Her tormentor turned pale. His mouth was open but no sound came out except for a high-pitched wheezing noise. He backed away, mouth pinched, face deathly white, then disappeared.
Something large—very large—moved into her line of vision. The big man she’d seen on the other side of the bar had chased off Creepy and sat down in the seat next to hers.
Claire tensed. She’d just traded one potential danger for another. Creepy had freaked her out and had proved hard to shake but he hadn’t been physically overwhelming like the man now sitting next to her. Scaring off this man could prove to be impossible.
This was getting worse and worse. Claire stared into the Pit, frantically searching for Lucy. She had to get out of here, she was way too freaked, this was way too weird, she felt way too…what?
She stilled. Actually, she felt…okay.
Amazing.
She looked down at the wine glass and her hands clasped around it. Her hands had stopped trembling. Her Creepometer was silent, the arrow having gone right back around the dial to the blue Everything’s Cool Zone.
Everything in her quieted, calmed. She was encased in a bubble of protection. Nothing could hurt her here.
It was the man sitting next to her. The very big man sitting next to her. He was the one responsible for the feeling of being looked after. Of sitting on the banks of a gently murmuring river on a warm spring day.
Claire chanced a glance. Gosh, he was big. Tall, even sitting down, with massive muscles on show. A lot of the men in The Warehouse were prancing around, parading physiques bought in some gym. This man didn’t look like that at all. He looked like he’d been born tall and strong and had used his body well ever since. He was clearly in some kind of labor-intensive job. A stevedore, maybe, or a lumberjack.
His limbs were long and heavily-muscled. Claire tried not to stare in fascination at the snake tattoo curving around the right forearm. She’d never seen a tattoo so up close before and this one was gorgeous, lifelike and artistic. A cobra, the hooded head depicted in lifelike detail on the back of the hand, the body curling around a hard, powerful forearm. Whenever the man’s hands moved, the ripple effect made the snake twist sensuously. As an artistic effect, it was riveting.
The man’s hands were extraordinarily beautiful—long-fingered, elegant, sinuous. Powerful without being meaty. He might be a lumberjack, but the fingernails were clean and cut short.
Claire cleared her throat and turned to look him straight in the eye. “I’d like to thank you,” she said, “for taking care of that guy.” The music was at a lower decibel for just an instant and people’s voices could be heard without shouting.
“Don’t mention it.” The man’s voice was clear and deep, a pleasant bass that reverberated in her stomach.
Close-up he was compelling. Clean, stern features. Strong, straight nose, square jaw, full lips. She held her breath when she met his eyes. They were a light brown, as piercing and keen as those of a hawk. There was strength and compassion in that gaze. She felt as if she could fall forward into him and be caught, and held.
She took a deep breath. She trusted her instincts. She wanted to fall forward. And be caught.
“My name’s Claire. Claire…Schuyler.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She was Claire Schuyler Parks. Schuyler was her mother’s maiden name, and the name she used in her new job. Tonight she didn’t want to be Claire Parks, scion of one of Portland’s oldest families. She wanted to be Claire Schuyler, anonymous secretary.
Not to mention the fact that ten years ago, the name Claire Parks had been plastered all over the headlines in The Oregonian. Claire Parks belonged to the past.
“Bud,” the big man said. “Bud Morrison.” He held out a large hand and, after a second’s hesitation, Claire took it and nearly had a heart attack at the electric jolt.
The feeling of well-being, of protection, intensified. And something else, something she was totally unprepared for, something she’d never felt in her life, flooded through her. As his huge hand curled around hers and squeezed gently, her entire arm tingled and she felt a huge warm rush of sexual excitement surge through her body. Every nerve in her body jangled and the hair on the nape of her neck stood up.
The sight of their clasped hands was riveting. His skin was tanned, much darker than hers, his hand sinewy and muscular. Their two hands entwined were almost a poster for Man and Woman, strength and delicacy together.
The only men who had ever touched her had been doctors, and her father. The doctors had all had soft, delicate, almost feminine hands. And her father, bless him, had the soft, mottled hands of an old man.
Her hand was half the size of this man’s, totally surrounded by the hard and warm male flesh of his. Not soft, not delicate, but powerful and sinewy. The raised veins of an athlete coursed over the back of his hands, covered in old scars and new nicks. Hands that were used a lot.
She felt encased in something immensely powerful, yet gentle.
And more.
Nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for the powerful surge of sexuality leaping through her body.
Sex surrounded her. The whole Warehouse was one big testosterone and estrogen pump, but it had left her totally unmoved. Now sexuality coursed through her veins, and she felt as if someone had suddenly plunged her into a socket and turned her on.
Bud Morrison was, in all senses of the term, a man. He was simply, even cheaply, dressed. Nothing trendy about him at all, from his simple short haircut to the clean, unbuffed and unmanicured fingernails. He wasn’t looking around, trying to troll for women. He wasn’t preening, hoping for attention.
He made every other man at The Warehouse look like a puppy.
With a start, Claire realized that her hand was still in his. That they were, in effect, holding hands. She tugged gently and his hand immediately opened to release hers. She missed the warmth and the connection.
This was nuts. Sure, her Creepometer was signaling safety—though it might have suddenly gone on the blink for all she knew—but that didn’t mean she should go all moony over a perfect stranger.
“Freshen your drink.”
She looked up at the bartender’s tone and was surprised to see a sour, forbidding expression on his face. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. She’d been occupying a bar stool for over two hours, and had only consumed half a glass of white wine. They probably frowned on that, expecting customers to order overpriced drink after overpriced drink. The thought of ordering more alcohol made her stomach curdle. Okay, if she had to have a drink—”I’ll have ginger ale with a twist of lime.”
The bartender leaned forward on one elbow and frowned belligerently. “Look lady, this isn’t kindergarten—”
“The lady wants a ginger ale and you’ll bring her exactly what she wants. And I’ll have another beer. Domestic.” Her saviour didn’t raise his deep voice, but it penetrated the din of the music. Coupled with a narrow-eyed gaze, it got results. The bartender’s jaw muscles jumped as he bit back an answer. He nodded, disappeared and a minute later slammed two drinks in front of them, the liquid sloshing over his hands. Beer and ginger ale.
Her rescuer dug into his jeans for money and Claire gasped.
“Oh no!” She put her hand on Bud’s hard forearm, the one with the snake, and again felt the sizzle of electricity. She pulled back immediately but it was enough to get his attention. He’d saved her from Creepy and had clearly appointed himself her watchdog. No one had come up in the last ten minutes asking her to dance. He’d glared hard at any approaching men—he gave great glare—and they’d all skittered away immediately…for which she was grateful. And now he wanted to buy her a drink?
The Warehouse was expensive. The gate was $50 and drinks went for $20 a pop. Claire had more money than she knew what to do with. Her rescuer was clearly a working man. Forty dollars meant nothing to her but it was probably more than what he earned for an hour of hard labor. She couldn’t allow him to pay for her drink.
“Please, Bud,” she said, looking up into those clear light eyes. She leaned forward and pitched her voice above the music. “You don’t need to buy me a drink. If anything I should pay for yours.”
She might as well have not spoken for all the good it did her. By the time she closed her mouth, he’d slid the money for the drinks and a tip across the counter and had started sipping his beer. Sighing, she sipped at her ginger ale. It was cold and tart and familiar. For many years of her life, too many years, it had been one of the few things her stomach could tolerate.
Bud wasn’t making any attempt at conversation. The music was too deafening. Any words had to be almost shouted, making any exchange feel silly and artificial.
But his body was talking to her, loud and clear, and it was telling her she had his protection for as long as she wanted it. He was aware of everything and everyone and seemed to stave off trouble before it arrived.
