Gwen laughed. “Points for best use of inspirational phrase. And thank you!” She took the proffered cup and straw. “But seriously...get that security tape, okay? Just in case. Those guys were ugly.”
He pointed at the phone. “Owner is on his way. I’m sure he’d like to meet—”
But Gwen stopped listening, swallowing that first sweet slurp of crushed ice and flavor, suddenly too cold as it hit her stomach. She felt the trickle of uncertain feeling, the wash of it over her skin, crawling and repulsive. “Do you feel—?”
The man shook his head. “Just the way the swamp cooler always feels—”
But he’d known what she meant. And he stopped, just as uncertain as she.
And Mac no longer stood out in front of the store.
Mac, who’d been so vulnerable to this inexplicable wall of hatred.
“Gotta go,” Gwen said. “Be careful!”
“Y tu, chica,” he said as she pushed out the door, his voice nearly lost in the jingle of the bells there. “Y tu.”
She stood outside in the bright world again, the heat washing against her so strongly that it momentarily overwhelmed that subtle sensation of...something. Two cars at the pumps, everyone minding their own business, no one happy. She squelched an urge to call for him; wherever he was, he wouldn’t want that.
Like you know him so well.
Well enough. And he couldn’t have gone far. Wouldn’t have, surely—
As if she was confident, she headed around the side of the little station, where the lot grew weedy and untended, an adobe wall angling to cut it off nearly at the back corner of the station and not even enough room for a trash bin.
Mac stood, back to the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed—his face was tense, jaw tight, hands flat against the building.
“Mac!” She ran to him, dodging the stickery weed clumps and stuttering to a stop at the look on his face, the way he turned from her—understanding the message of it. Don’t come any closer.
As if she had a choice. As if she could leave him like that.
As if she would.
Chapter 6
Run away, Gwen. Please run away.
“Mac,” she said, determination lacing her voice—penetrating even the darkness. “I feel it, too. Not like you do, but I can tell. Whatever it is, let me help.” Her hand on his upper arm and he couldn’t help it—it came on him like a lightning reflex, knocking her hand away, snatching her in his own grip—a cruel grip, fingers tight, eyes never even opening.
She cried out—nothing more than a sharp gasp, as offended as she was frightened—but she didn’t even try to break away. She stepped up to him.
He lost track, then, as the blade pounded him.
“Dammit, Mac, I need some help here! Come on!”
Bright light flashed through his mind, reflected through his body...slicing mirror-bright shards, bouncing and multiplying and the blade—
—wail fury desperation kill you kill her no no no—
The stucco wall of the gas station grated against his skin, lifted the back of his shirt as he slid, legs no longer holding him—but Gwen was right there keeping him from falling outright.
Gone.
It was gone.
The tarry darkness, the blade’s fear, its fury. Light flickered within and became soothing dapples, and Mac gulped air—a gasp profound enough to be his very first breath. He found himself sitting on his heels, his back still to the stucco, an unexpected crouch.
And still he held Gwen’s arm. She knelt before him, and her eyes sparked determination, a bold light blue in a freckled surround. One hand pressed up against his chest, there where the unbuttoned henley gapped to show skin; one hand clutched the pendant that fell just below the notch of her collarbones. “Mac,” she said, and only then did he hear the fear lurking behind the determination.
What did you do? He meant to say it out loud, but his breath hitched on new realization.
The blade was gone.
Oh, still in his pocket. Still warm with fury.
But not in his mind.
Not feeding him trickles of feelings, of emotions that weren’t his. Not ramping up what he might otherwise feel himself with what it wanted him to seek out and enhance.
Just him. Michael MacKenzie, free and clear.
And realizing, just as suddenly, how much he still wanted this woman. All on his own, without trickles of stolen feelings or ramped-up reactions. How he was still entranced by the spark of her, the life of her. Still beguiled by the heart-shaped face, the barely there cleft in her chin, the way her eyebrows lifted as she looked at him now.
Relief flooded in to replace the startled emptiness. The blade had screwed with his head, but it hadn’t replaced what he was.
Not yet.
And for whatever reason, he had this moment. Freed, he found himself with no restraint at all. He pulled her between his knees with hands both gentled and intractable, watching her eyes widen as he guided her right up to meet his mouth, his hands sliding up her arms to cup her head, losing himself in the inexplicable luxury of just being himself.
Of being them.
Oh, hell yes, he kissed her.
Her hand crept to the back of his neck, fingers against damp skin, and oh, hell yes, she kissed him back.
Until her breathing quickened and she made the smallest of sounds deep in her throat, and he realized where he was and who he was and that he no longer trusted himself to know what was truly real and what wasn’t—or that he’d know when he crossed the line.
And so he ran his thumbs along her jaw, there where the skin was so soft, and he managed to pull away from her. And then he would have said I’m sorry, but those words never made it to the surface, either.
Instead, he looked at eyes gone big and cheeks gone flushed and lips gone from striking to stunning, and he realized out loud, voice tinged with surprise, “You knew I was going to do that.”
She laughed, as small and shaky as it was. “The look on your face?” She smiled, just a little one, self-aware and amused at them both. “I for sure knew you were going to do that.” Then she tossed her head, a token motion. “Do you think,” she said, “we could get back to the hotel without more of—” and she removed her hand from the back of his neck to wave it expansively around them “—this?”
He couldn’t help the faint self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’m used to looking for it, not running from it.”
“It hardly seems necessary to look.” She eased back from him, her hand lingering at the open neck of his shirt, and glanced around—checking to see if they’d made a spectacle of themselves, he thought, though he’d sought this place for its relative privacy when the darkness had struck him. “Is it always like this for you?”
He shook his head and took the liberty of tucking a stray curl back behind her ear, the red of it glinting through. One knee lowered to the ground, stabilizing them both. “No. Not like this.” He shook his head, closing his eyes to breathe deeply. Even the air felt clearer. “What did you do?”
She looked at the spot where her hand rested against his skin; her other hand crept back to the pendant. He’d seen that, he remembered...vaguely. But then she looked away. “You’re just going to laugh.”