Flameout (19 page)

“According to PIT, what you become very much depends on who you're infected by, so maybe that isn't such a problem anymore.”

Although
that
theory wasn't exactly watertight, given the original source of all this was a scientist made crazy after he'd tested the virus on himself.

“Meaning he wanted me to become one of the insane?” His voice was flat. “I really
am
going to enjoy killing that bastard if I ever get my hands on him.”

“You and me both.” Though I wasn't entirely sure either of us stood much chance. Not when Sam had every intention of getting there first. “I also rang Baker. They were his wolves, but they weren't there on his orders. He assured me it wouldn't happen again.”

“Good. I hope he's going to teach the bastards a lesson.”

“Oh, I think he will. And I very much doubt anyone else from the pack will be tempted to take contract work from the vamps without his permission.” I spotted the second gym up ahead. “Do you want me to go in this time?”

He hesitated and glanced around. “Yeah. Why they build these fucking things so near small shopping strips where parking is at a premium, I have no idea.”

I grinned. “Maybe it's all part of an evil plan to get people out of their damn cars and use their legs occasionally.”

He gave me a shocked look, though the amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes somewhat spoiled the effect. “You mean they want people to exercise for real? Not just go to the gym and sweat for an hour, but actually do real stuff in the day as well? That is outrageous!”

I laughed then undid my belt and leaned across, dropping a quick kiss on his cheek. “Glad you've still got your sense of humor.”

“It's the only way to get through life's shit sometimes.” Despite the lingering amusement, his tone was sober. He fished the keys out of his pocket and dropped them into my hand. “I'll drive around the block until you come out.”

“Okay.”

The rain was once again pelting down, so I jumped out and bolted into the gym's entrance to avoid getting any wetter than necessary. A slim, ponytailed teenager glanced up from her computer and gave me a welcoming smile. “And how can we help you today?”

I flashed my new badge and said, “Could you tell
me if you're using the old-fashioned key lockers or the electronic ones here?”

She frowned. “The older type—why?”

“Because we're investigating a murder and have a couple of keys we need to find a home for.” I grimaced. “I'm the newbie on the team, so I get the odious task of wandering around all the places likely to hold such lockers to find a match.”

She laughed. “That doesn't sound like a fabulous job.”

“It's not. Especially on miserably wet days like this.” I paused. “Do your members have their own permanent lockers, or are they shared?”

“The former. We don't have a lot of casuals here, I'm afraid.”

Which meant there was a slightly better chance that the keys belonged here than at some place where lockers were used on a first-come, first-served basis.

“Do you think it'll be okay if I have a quick look and see if any of your lockers match the keys we have?”

“I'll have to check with management, but I can't see that it'll be a problem.”

She made a quick call then said, “They've said it's okay, although they don't want you to remove anything until management is present.”

Technically, they should have also asked for a warrant, even if it wouldn't have done them any good given I was—at least temporarily—working for PIT, and they seemed to have official permission to ride roughshod over rules when it was appropriate.

“I won't. Thanks.”

I headed into the gym. The main exercise room smelled vaguely of sweaty men and dust, but the equipment was new and there was plenty of it packed into the tight space. There were a couple of other rooms tucked off a long corridor—one containing speed bikes, the other a boxing ring and bags—and, down at the very end, two change and shower rooms.

I checked the women's change rooms first, just on the off chance that if Wilson
had
decided to be sneaky and hide something here, the women's rooms were less likely to be searched and therefore discovered.

Naturally, Wilson hadn't decided to be sneaky. I switched over to the men's and, after yelling a warning, headed in. Like everything else in this gym, the change rooms were small and slightly odorous. There were two rows of lockers dominating the middle of the room—double the number that was in the women's—and a further eight around the corner, near the toilets.

I began the search, reading each of the numbers, looking for a lock that matched the numbers on our keys. It was a task made harder by the fact that most of these lockers had seen better days, and the numbers on many of the locks had all but worn away.

I was three lockers away from the last of them when I finally saw a lock that matched the number on one of our keys. I was so surprised that I actually took it out of my pocket and double-checked. It definitely was a match. Luck, it seemed, hadn't totally abandoned us.

I shoved the key in and opened it up. The locker was one of those long, thin ones that had hanging room on one side and a couple of shelves on the other.
It was also empty. I swore and stepped back to close the door again, but caught the faintest glimmer of metal right at the back of the top shelf.

Frowning, I rose on tippy-toes and swept my hand across the shelf. At the very back, tucked right in a corner, was a USB. I plucked it free from its bed of dust then—after casually checking there were no watching cameras—shoved it into my pocket. I may have agreed not to remove anything, but that didn't mean I actually had to abide by it. Besides, the fewer people who knew we'd found something, the more chance we had of checking it out before someone arrived to take it out of our hands. And while I doubted the teenager at the front desk was in any way connected to any of the people after us, caution would nevertheless be wise.

I checked the remaining lockers, but the second key didn't fit any of them. Which wasn't surprising given it would have been a daft move to have two hiding places in such close proximity. I spun around and headed out.

“Any luck?” the receptionist said as I reappeared.

I shook my head. “Nope. It's on to the next one, I'm afraid.”

“Hope you have more luck there,” she said.

“Me too.” I flashed her a smile then headed out into the rain. Jackson appeared a few seconds later, so I didn't get that much wetter than I already was.

He took off again the minute I jumped in then said, “No luck?”

“Plenty of luck.” I dug out the USB and showed it to him. “Unfortunately, we haven't a laptop with us at the moment.”

“Then maybe we need to find another office supplies place and buy one. Besides, with the way we keep getting intercepted, it'd pay to keep a backup of everything.”

Especially given we now had both PIT and Rinaldo expecting information out of us. I got out our new phone and Googled “office supplies.” “There's an Officeworks on Bridge Road.”

“That'll do.”

We drove there, picked up a new laptop as well as a couple of extra USBs, and I got the computer up and running and transferred all the information over while Jackson headed back into the city.

The Victoria Hotel was on Little Collins Street, right next to Melbourne's town hall. It was an old building that showed hints of grandeur in its grimy façade, and was dwarfed by the other, newer buildings that now surrounded it. Jackson parked in the lot just across the road, and then we grabbed our things and headed into the hotel.

The receptionist smiled as we approached. “How may I help you?”

“We have a booking under the name of Pearson,” I said.

Her fingers flew across the computer's keyboard. “We've been able to give you the room you requested. You're lucky, though—the previous booking had to cancel at the last moment.”

Meaning fate—with a little prompting from some witchy power, perhaps—had intervened on our behalf. Maybe it was a sign that things were beginning to
swing our way. I mean, they had to sometime, didn't they?

Once they'd taken our credit card details—there was little point in concealing our presence given PIT were well aware we'd be here—we collected our key and head up to the room. It was small, basic, and a whole lot fresher than our other accommodation. Jackson dumped our bags on the bed while I moved over to the window. Little Collins Street lay below us, currently filled with people and cars making their way home for the evening. We could see a good portion of the street from Swanston back up toward Russell Street, so maybe that was why we'd been told to get this room. It'd be interesting to uncover what we were actually meant to see here.

Jackson's arms slid around my waist as he pressed a kiss against my lips. “I'd really like to waste some time making love to you right now, but that might not be a wise move until we discover whether I'm infected or not.”

“We've made love a few times since that day in Hanging Rock. Besides, you'd have to break my skin with a bite or a scratch to actually infect me.”

“As far as anyone is aware. There could be other means of passing this thing that they don't know about.”

PIT had been on this case for a while now, and if there had been any other way, surely Sam would have mentioned it. He was well aware that Luke kept flinging the bastards at us, after all.

Still, I could understand Jackson's concern. “If
you're at all worried about the possibility of infecting me, I'll simply shift form for a few seconds and burn any possible residue from my system.”

“Good.”

He dropped a kiss on my neck then swung me around to kiss me more thoroughly. We took our time, exploring each other thoroughly, kissing and teasing and caressing, until heat burned the air and need was so high that I could barely breathe, let alone think. And yet, through it all, there was an odd sort of . . . not desperation, but something close to it, in all his actions. It was almost as if he was savoring every moment, every touch, every sensation, just in case he never experienced them again.

When he finally entered me, my groan of pleasure echoed his. But he didn't immediately move, simply held himself still deep inside me and wrapped his arms around my body, holding me tight.

I gently ran my fingers down his warm, muscular back. “If there's one thing I've learned over the centuries, it's that it's useless to worry about things you cannot change.”

A smile tugged his lips, but didn't stretch as far as his eyes. “I bet that never stopped you doing so.”

“Well, yeah, but I was born a worrier. It's not an emotion that suits you.” I paused, then grinned and added, “And, hey, look on the bright side—if you
are
infected, then the lovely Rochelle is once more on your radar.”

He laughed, a booming sound that vibrated through every inch of me. “There is that.”

And with that, he began to move. The fires that had
been banked so very briefly flared to life, and in no time at all, I came. He followed me over that edge a few seconds later then rested his forehead on mine and closed his eyes for several seconds.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

“Yes. And I'm seriously going to miss these moments with you when it's over.”

“As I said before, that's not likely to happen in the near future.”

Unless, of course, Luke succeeded in killing me. Because once Rory called my spirit back into being, I would be free of Sam and therefore free to love again. And if Rory was right—if it
was
all about honesty—then Jackson and I would also be finished. Or, at least, finished sexually. I couldn't imagine finding someone new to break my heart when I was already involved in a hot and heady relationship with Jackson, and—Rory aside—I really
did
prefer a one-on-one relationship over playing the field.

But leaving this lifetime behind was a thought that left me unmoved. While the prospect of being free to love again was exciting, it oddly felt as if
this
lifetime was unfinished. That there was still much to be achieved.

But when didn't a lifetime feel unfinished? It wasn't like Rory and I had made old bones very often in the past.

Jackson kissed me then rolled to one side and snuggled into my back, one arm flung lightly over my hip. In very little time, he was asleep.

I must have dozed off as well, because the next thing I remember was being woken by the sound of someone thumping on the room's door.

“What the hell?” I muttered as I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was nearly eleven . . . which was way past the time I was supposed to call Rinaldo.

Panic hit me, and I threw myself out of bed.

“What?” Jackson muttered, his voice muffled by the blankets he'd thrown over his head.

“I forgot to call Rinaldo when I was making those other calls.”

“Fuck.” He sat up abruptly and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Did I hear someone knocking on the door or was that imagination?”

“It wasn't imagination. It's probably PIT.” I found my clothes and hurriedly pulled them on.

“Fuck,” he repeated, and began getting dressed.

I found my shoes then headed for the door and said, “Who is it?”

“PIT, ma'am. Sorry for our lateness, but I believe you
are
expecting us.”

The voice was deep, male, and not one I'd heard before. Sam had said that Adam would be our liaison point until he was released, so either Adam was on another investigation or his boss had other ideas. “Hold your badges up to the peephole, please.”

I rose on tippy-toes, checked both their credentials—or at least as much as it was possible through a tiny fish-eye window—then opened the door.