Inspire Read online

  He continues, “Though I think Gwen would have been all too happy to chase you too. I don’t know how you did it, but she was a complete angel the rest of the day. Didn’t throw a single fit. I think I might have to call you Saint Kalli if you continue to work miracles like that.”

  I shrug. “She’s sweet.”

  He barks a laugh, dipping his chin toward his chest, and dropping his hand. “Sometimes. Yeah.” He takes a few steps back; it’s then that I notice what he’d been hiding beneath his jacket and the button down he’d worn the first time we met.

  His skin is covered in ink, from his wrists, all the way up and under the sleeves of his fitted tee. I barely have time to take in the art or contemplate this new puzzle piece of this man before his eyes catch sight of my feet again. Then he’s all business. The line of his jaw is hard, stern, and that almost smile is long gone. He looks angry, either with me or with himself for forgetting.

  “You didn’t tell me where your car is.”

  “I, uh, didn’t bring it. It’s still back at my apartment.”

  He frowns, and I hope he’ll just assume that I caught a cab.

  “And you don’t know where your shoes are?”

  I shrug and smile because I’m pretty positive I’m better off sticking to nonverbal communication at the moment. Just smile and look pretty, that usually works for most things.

  He shakes his head and says, “I’ll take you home. But my car is a bit of a walk from here.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll just catch a cab.”

  He lifts an eyebrow and says, “Do you have money?”

  I glance down, and sure enough, he’s right. I don’t have anything with me. No purse, no wallet, nothing. I’m not even sure how I got into that club without an ID. I must have charmed the bouncer, but I don’t really remember.

  When I don’t answer he says, “Right. My car it is then.”

  He surveys me again, then turns to the side a little and says, “Hop on.”

  I blanch. “Hop on?”

  “It’s about five or six blocks to my car. No way I’m letting you walk all that way barefoot. I’d carry you in my arms, but …” He trails off, and his eyes linger along the hem of my dress that falls loose around my thighs and would no doubt flash the world if he were to hold me against his chest.

  He clears his throat, and when he looks back at me, his eyes are hooded and his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. He turns away quickly and says again, his voice clipped, “Hop on.” I step up behind him and lay my hands atop his shoulders. The muscles bunch and harden beneath my touch, and I know my assumption that day at the grocery store was correct. He might spend his days hiding beneath business clothes, but he has an incredible body beneath.

  “How do I …”

  “Jump,” he answers. “I’ll catch you.”

  I take a deep breath, and rather than jumping straight away, I move close and lift one leg up to wrap around his hip. He reaches a hand back to grip my thigh, and it ends up half on the fabric of my dress, half on my bare skin. I feel him suck in a breath, and before I can think too much about it, I dig my fingers into his shoulders and jump, lifting my other leg.

  He catches me as promised, but my dress has ridden up around my thighs so his other hand curls around bare flesh. I wrap one arm over his shoulder, and down onto his chest so I don’t choke him by wrapping it around his neck. I reach down with the other to pull at my dress and make sure all the necessary parts of me are covered. The fabric slides down a little, covering part of his hand, but he doesn’t bother adjusting his grip so he’s not beneath my dress.

  I fold my other arm around him to hold on, and I swear I can feel his heart racing beneath my hand. My chest presses against his hard back, and he doesn’t move for several long moments.

  “Wilder?”

  He clears his throat and answers, his voice strained, “Just … trying to remember which direction my car is in.”

  He starts walking then, and I’m all too aware of the heat that’s burning where our bodies press together. He pauses to shift me higher, gripping my legs a little harder, and the friction of my front against his back makes a moan form low in my throat. I pause long enough to be thankful that he gave me his jacket, otherwise he would feel the way my nipples have tightened into hard little buds because of his closeness. Somehow, putting on a bra didn’t occur to altered me.

  “So,” I say, trying to distract myself. “Gwen is your little sister. That makes you how much older than her?”

  “She’s five, and I’m twenty-three, so about eighteen.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  He laughs. “Yeah, we were all a little shocked when she happened.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Getting there. I wasn’t around much when she was born. I was already out of the house and on my own, but … well, things are different now. I’ve been trying to make an effort to be around more for the last year or so.”

  My head hovers over his shoulder, close to his ear and I reply quietly, “I bet she’s glad to have you back. Your parents, too.”

  He nods, some of his curls brushing my cheek, but quickly shifts the focus to me. “What about you? Any siblings?”

  I hesitate, my usual lie on the tip of my tongue. Normally, I start out from the beginning saying no family. It keeps people from asking unwanted questions. But this time … I don’t know what’s different.

  “Sisters. But we’re estranged. I haven’t seen or spoken to them in … well, a long time.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice is low and sincere, and it makes me want to lean my head against his shoulder.

  I do just that when I reply, “It’s okay. I’m over it.” Have had a long time to get there.

  The road we’re on begins to slope upward, and he grips me tighter. I do the same, feeling bad that he has to carry me all this way.

  “Well, you know how old I am. What about you?”

  I stifle a laugh. Wouldn’t that be something if I told him the truth? He’d drop me off at the hospital for a psych-consult rather than at my apartment.

  “Twenty-one.” Perpetually.

  I feel him shift, and I lift my head off his shoulder only to find him turned sideways toward me, our lips inches apart.

  It takes him a moment to say what’s on his mind, and when he does, his voice is husky. “You sure? You look … young.”

  I laugh, and my voice might be a little breathy too. “If you’re worried about me being underage. I promise … I’m not.”

  He stops then by a dark SUV and says, “This is me.”

  He lets go of one of my legs to fish for his keys, and I tighten my thighs around his waist. He pauses, ducking his head and bracing an arm against the vehicle. After a shuddering breath, he unlocks the car with the press of a button and pulls open the passenger side door. He turns and leans until my backside meets the leather seat. For a moment, I have to resist the urge to squeeze my arms and legs around him, to not let him go, but common sense wins out, and I let them fall slack.

  Rather than stepping away completely, he turns to face me, his hips still cradled between my legs. He towers over me, and I can’t help but notice how gorgeous he is. Perfectly angled jaw, high cheekbones, and sinfully full lips. His nose is slightly off-center, but somehow that only makes him more fascinating to me. A gifted sculptor once told me that the brilliance of art lives in its flaws.

  He leans down toward me, planting a fist on the seat beside me, and I tilt my chin up. My mind is filled with the mistakes I’ve made and the possible repercussions and the look in the Watcher’s eye, but somehow his closeness cuts through all of that. And I want him to kiss me.

  Immortality has a way of muting the world over time, blurring the things that used to matter, and stifling emotions that used to be clear and sharp.

  I don’t know why he’s different, but he is. As his mouth hovers closer to mine, it’s everything else that blurs, not him. When I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips, my eyes flutter clos
ed, and his groan is the only clue I get before I feel his body move away from mine, and the cool November air takes his place.

  I open my eyes, and he stands a few feet back, turned slightly away. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, and his chest rises and falls on a slow, steady breath. He grips the top of my door and waits for me to shift my legs inside. I do, and the door closes with a thud before he disappears behind the SUV.

  I dip my chin when he climbs inside, suddenly nervous. He twists the key in the ignition, and immediately turns down the air while we wait for it to warm. I’m saved the trouble of deciding what to say by the ringing of his phone. It rings twice, and it’s not until he says my name that I realize it’s coming from the pocket of his jacket. The one I’m wearing.

  “Oh, sorry.”

  While I search his pockets, he accepts the call on his car’s Bluetooth.

  “Wild, where the fuck are you man? How am I supposed to get some while I’ve got Bridget in my ear asking about you every five seconds?”

  “Rook, hang on a sec.” Then he tells me, “It’s in the zipper pocket.”

  I retrieve the phone and say again, “Sorry.”

  The guy on the phone says, “Ohh. And who might that pretty voice belong to?”

  Wilder switches the call to his cell and says, “Rook. Something came up. I’m sorry.” He sighs at his friend’s response. “Not that kind of something.” He rubs at the bridge of his nose, and it makes me think again of the glasses he’d worn last time. I wonder which version of Wilder is more authentic. Leather or lenses. “I know. I’ll owe you one.” I don’t have to hear the words to know his friend isn’t happy he’s ditching. “Tell her whatever you want. Bridget isn’t my problem anymore.” That gets a strong enough response that Wilder tilts his ear away from the phone. “Fine. I’ll owe you two. Gotta go.” He hangs up without waiting for a reply and tosses the phone into a cup holder in the center console.

  “So, where am I taking you?”

  It’s then that I remember how I spent my day before I wandered down to Sixth Street. I have a vague memory of my apartment, covered in my delusional thoughts, and I know I can’t go back there. I can’t face that. Not now. Not with him in tow.

  “Anywhere but home.”

  Chapter Five

  I have to lie again.

  I make up some story about a fictional roommate being home with her boyfriend and a bunch of his friends that I can’t stand. I tell him they won’t leave until late, and he can just drop me off on campus somewhere.

  “I’ll kill time in the library or something,” I say.

  “The library? On a Saturday night? With no shoes?” I wince. Gods, I sound like an idiot. “Why don’t you just let me take you home? I’ll go in with you if you’re worried about those guys. I’ll feel better if I know you’re home and safe.”

  I absolutely can’t let him into my apartment. Not until I see what damage I did earlier today and find a way to undo it.

  And that’s not something I have the energy or strength to do tonight. In fact, if he weren’t here, I’m fairly certain I’d still be huddled on the street somewhere, bawling my eyes out.

  And there’s a very real chance I might do that even with him here.

  “No. Really. I’m fine,” I say. “In fact, maybe I should just catch a cab. I don’t want to put you out.”

  I start to slip off his jacket so I can leave, but he grips my arm to stop me. My eyes go to his ink again, and there’s a familiar figure there that captures me.

  Atlas.

  I survey him then, wondering what about this man would make him want a tattoo of such a figure, of a Titan with such a heavy burden on his shoulders.

  “Buckle up. I’ll take you to my place. We’ll get you cleaned up, and you can stay there until I can take you home.”

  I hesitate, and the stern look he shoots me shouldn’t make my thighs clench, but it does. “Kalli. Seatbelt. Please.”

  When I follow his directive, he puts the car in drive and pulls out onto the narrow one-way street. A few turns have him merging onto the highway and heading north. He’s silent, which I don’t mind. It gives me time to evaluate how I’m going to handle this moving forward. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll live close to me. I can just wait until he’s distracted and then sneak out and walk home. But when the exits for the university area come and go, and he keeps heading north, I give up on that idea.

  Okay. Worst case scenario … I spend the night. That is, if he lets me. Then tomorrow I’ll just have him drop me off on campus for class or I’ll take the bus.

  Except that I’m not sure exactly what day it is, and based on the crowds on Sixth Street, I’m going to guess it’s a weekend. Which means no classes. And even if I manage to find a bus stop, I have no money. Or shoes.

  I let out a frustrated exhale and lean my head against the cool glass of the window.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod in lieu of an answer.

  “You need water or something? Are you going to be sick?”

  I resist the urge to laugh. Because I do feel like I might be sick, but not because of alcohol. “I swear, I’m fine. I’m not drunk.”

  He doesn’t look like he believes me, and I don’t blame him. In fact, it’s probably easier if I just let him think that I am. Less explaining for me to do in the long run.

  “Why Atlas?” I ask on impulse.

  “Hmm?”

  “Your tattoo. Atlas.”

  He frowns, and from his expression I gather he’s surprised I recognize the image.

  “The myth interested me.”

  “Just interest?” The tattoo takes up nearly his entire forearm. “Must be a lot of interest to have it permanently etched on your skin.”

  He shrugs. “I can identify with him.”

  “His punishment? Have you done something deserving of punishment, Wilder?”

  Oh gods, I’m flirting. Why am I flirting? What is wrong with me?

  He laughs and shakes his head. “I just always thought it was interesting that out of all the Titans that betrayed the gods, he was chosen to bear the weight of the Earth.”

  “That’s a misconception, actually. It’s not the Earth that Atlas holds, but the celestial spheres. The heavens. He keeps them from colliding with the Earth. And the others didn’t exactly get away with it. I would rather Atlas’s punishment than spend eternity being tortured in Tartarus.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “You like mythology?”

  I smile. “Loathe it, actually.”

  “Okay then. There went all my plans for small talk.” He throws me a wink before turning back to the road, and somehow … miraculously … I find myself smiling.

  Then I immediately feel awful. I shouldn’t be here with him. Not after what I’ve done tonight … not ever.

  Exiting the interstate, he turns under the highway heading into a residential part of North Austin. I’d guess we’re between three and five miles from campus, which might not be a completely unreasonable walk if it came to that.

  After a few turns, he pulls up in front of a simple duplex. It’s boxy and gray and not anything special, but I’m suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity for what I might find inside. He pops open his door and turns off the car.

  “Hold on a sec.”

  His door slams shut, and I watch him jog around the front of the hood. He pulls my door open and then his eyes dart down to the floorboard.

  “How are your feet?”

  I swallow and shrug. “They’re fine.”

  He gives me that already familiar expression of doubt, and I laugh. “Why do you bother asking me questions if you’re not going to believe what I say?”

  “Because maybe one time you’ll slip up and tell me the truth.”

  “My feet are fine, and I’m not drunk.” I slide out of the car to prove my statement, but I know it’s a mistake the second my sore feet hit concrete. I try to hide my wince, but it’s not exactly something one controls with conscious thought, so in
stead my face ends up doing this weird twitch thing, and he gives me a knowing smile that makes me want to punch him. Or kiss him.

  Maybe a little of both.

  I keep my chin up and take a few steps past him, enough to push the door closed behind me. I turn, intending to head for his door with whatever dignity I can manage to scrape up. I take two hobbling steps before he’s at my side, sweeping me up into his arms.

  Dignity is long gone when I squeak and try to hold onto him with one arm while desperately yanking on the hem of my dress with the other.

  “No one’s around but me,” he murmurs. The side of my breast is smashed up against his chest, and the vibrations when he speaks move through me, distracting me from my panic. “And I promise not to look.”

  I don’t even answer him. I haven’t the slightest clue what to say.

  Me. At a loss for words. I’ve spent centuries learning how to speak to men, how to capture their interest, how to maneuver in their world, and now I’m undone by this dichotomy of a man and his not quite smile.

  “Hold on to me,” he says, and I wrap both my arms around his neck in answer. He drops the hand at my back to search for his keys, and I tighten my arms around him, drawing myself closer to his chest. I catch my breath at the sensation, glad for the thickness of his leather jacket that hides the way my breasts have become swollen and tight and gods … this is wrong. So very wrong. But I’m not sorry.

  I hear the jingle of keys, but I don’t know how he manages to get the door open because his eyes never leave mine. Our faces are so close together that when he leans forward to push the door open, my lips accidentally brush his jaw. He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes. Stepping over the threshold, he shuts the door behind us, and I don’t think. I just act.

  Before he can lower my feet down to the gray carpet below me, I tilt my chin up and touch my mouth to his. His arm returns to my back, his fingers curling around my side, but other than that, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t kiss me back.

  I press a little harder, willing him to respond because if he doesn’t … if I read all of this wrong … that would be the icing on the terrible fucking cake that is this night.