Just as I rounded the corner to go north to my apartment, I caught sight of the two Russian men getting into their car, a sleek black job that probably cost more than all my hospital bills combined.

But that wasn’t what caught my attention. They weren’t carrying any clothes. They’d had a ticket when they walked in but hadn’t walked out with any clothes. Even more interesting was the fact that the briefcase was gone.

Maybe the dry-cleaning business was even less legit than Scooter’s entrepreneurial adventures.

7

I have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my life.

If I die next Thursday.

—T-SHIRT

The sun set completely as I walked home, abandoning me like everyone else in my life. If that weren’t bad enough, I hadn’t made it half a block before the heavens opened up and poured buckets of ice-cold water over my head. That was what it truly felt like. When it stopped raining for a split second, I saw flurries of snow drift down as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and then the sleet-infused rain started again.

By the time I hit Howard Street, I’d turned blue and lost all feeling in my extremities, and my voice had taken on a mind of its own. Odd, whining sounds erupted out of my throat with no rhyme or reason. Every time a shudder took hold, I’d wheeze out some grumblings that sounded like profanity but lacked the true conviction of blasphemy.

My hair hung in thick clumps around my face and shoulders, parts of it turning to ice. I realized my shirt now revealed more of my body than it hid, and this was not the best neighborhood to be peddling my wares.

I could see my apartment, or at least a small corner of it, as I forced one foot in front of the other. The wind mocked me. Taunted me. And I suddenly knew how salmon felt when they swam against the current.

I realized I was walking past the Hometown Motel. The one in which Reyes Farrow was staying. Glancing over, I saw rows of run-down blue doors and a dirty white exterior. Even after all this time, I didn’t know what Reyes drove, so the cars parked out front gave me no clue as to which room was his. It was for the best. If I knew which room was his, I’d be tempted to knock on his door and beg for a ride, and I doubted he was attracted to drowned rats.

But my good fortune seemed to get gooder and gooder. The door to one of the rooms on my right opened, streaming light onto the sidewalk in front of me. I looked over as Reyes Farrow stepped into the doorframe. He must have had the heat all the way up, because a warmth from heaven slid over me like a blanket. The door stood twenty feet away, so either that or his heat could penetrate even this torrential weather. Not that I cared at that moment.

Since the light shone from behind Reyes, I couldn’t make out his features. I didn’t need to. The harshness in his voice spoke volumes. “What are you doing?”

I slowed my pace but didn’t stop. It hadn’t been a question of concern but one that demonstrated his complete faith in my ineptitude. What the hell had I ever done to this guy?

“Walking home,” I said, fighting the urge to wrap my arms around myself with every fiber of my being. My wet clothes clung to my skin, leaving little to the imagination, I was sure, the thin material slowly turning to ice. But the heat that now saturated me made me want to cry. I would’ve sold my soul for more.

The light cast a soft glow on the hills and valleys that encased his exposed forearms. Unlike the Russian’s, however, Reyes’s were smooth. Sinuous. Fluid. The shadows that rested in the negative spaces shifted with each movement he made as though a gorgeous painting had been brought to life. The unearthly fog that cascaded over his shoulders like a cape and pooled at his feet billowed around him, and the fire that licked across his skin glowed a soft amber in the low light. I wondered for the thousandth time what he was. I did know one thing for certain: He was not completely human. I also wondered if he knew.

He took a drink from a whiskey glass, keeping his glittering gaze locked on me as though laser guided. It was the one thing on his face I could make out clearly, his dark eyes glistening beneath thick lashes. The light rainbowed off his irises as he regarded me with what I could only assume was derision.

He lowered the glass to his side, the ice clinking – salient word: ice – and hooked a thumb into his jeans pocket. “Where’s your coat?” He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, only the buttons weren’t buttoned. The shirt hung open. The cold didn’t seem to faze him. It irked.

“Where’s yours?” I countered.

He ignored me. Kept his piercing stare locked on its target, its visage so arresting I stopped. As though he’d ordered me to. As though he’d willed it.

Frustrated, I said with a heavy sigh just as a gust of wind sent a chill shuddering through me, “Getting dry-cleaned.” I tensed my arms, curled my hands into fists, prayed he couldn’t see how cold I was. Or how blue.

“Why?”

I frowned at him. “Why what?”

“Why are you getting your coat cleaned?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

“Get in here,” he said, releasing his talonlike hold at last. He turned and started inside.

I stiffened. Or I tried to. I was pretty sure I shook visibly now, and it was only partly due to the cold. That boy had no idea what he was asking. If he didn’t hate me so much and he wasn’t an evil supernatural being, I’d be on him like black on Cookie’s toast.

That woman could not make toast.

I let go of my musings when he turned to look at me over the expanse of a powerful shoulder. When he arched a shapely brow. When he engaged his tractor beam and pulled until my feet started moving me forward. Damn it. He was an alien. I should have known. An evil, throw-me-against-a-wall-and-fuck-me alien. Aka, the worst kind.

I stepped inside the sparse motel room and almost climaxed. It was so warm, it hurt. In a hurts-so-good kind of way. My frozen skin didn’t know what to think. How to react. What color to be. It tingled as if pins were pricking it, or maybe tattoo needles. I was pretty sure I knew what it felt like to get a tattoo. I had one. A little-girl grim reaper on my left shoulder blade. Just didn’t remember getting it. Maybe that was where the scythe dreams were coming from.

Reyes walked out of the bathroom and handed me a towel before stepping around me to close the door to my one and only exit. I wanted to be afraid. I wanted to be very afraid, but I couldn’t quite manage it, the warmth felt so good.

He walked to a small kitchenette, poured me a cup of coffee, and doctored it without asking me how I took it. Not that it mattered. My answer would have been “Any way I can get it.”

My Pavlovian response kicked in at the smell, at the sound of the spoon clinking against the ceramic cup, at the steam billowing over the sides of it, and I had to swallow my enthusiasm. I’d put the sandwiches on a rickety table and was scrubbing my hair with the towel when he handed me the mug and gestured for me to sit. He sat on the other side, then stretched his long legs out and crossed them at the ankles, his motorcycle boots making a clunking sound.

The whole thing was so casual, so everyday, it felt oddly comforting. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but everyday did not make the list. Sadly, clandestine orgies and human sacrifice did.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. Then I tried not to moan. I had no idea if I succeeded, I was so lost in the moment.