Guarding Grayson (3 page)

The Kokopelli Brewpub and Bar was still busy, light spilling out the open doors along with voices and music. But other than that, the streets of Magic were, as his dad would say, 'rolled up at sundown'. That was all right with him. In general, he liked small town life.

In north Idaho, if he wanted night life he could drive to Spokane just across the state line, or down into Coeur d'Alene itself, which was growing quickly, adding new brewpubs and such. Maybe by the time he got back home to Coeur d'Alene, he'd be ready to take advantage of the opportunities. He was just stressed right now, that was all. He didn't have some 'male dysfunction' or anything like that. Darn Brynne.

As he walked, he swore he could feel her ghost, hanging onto his arm and looking up into his face as they walked, her blue eyes wide as if trying to parse what he wanted, and do that, be that before he could even form the thought. A Stepford Girlfriend, that had been Brynne. Slender, blonde, gorgeous and hot—and suffocating as a down comforter on a summer night.

At first she'd been the perfect woman, a little shy in bed but ready to try anything he wanted, a good cook, always dressed to the nines in sexy outfits with her long blonde hair as perfect as if she'd just walked out of a salon, with sexy eyeshadow and 'do-me-big-boy' cherry gloss on her soft lips ... and she meant that part too.

Turning the corner to his Gran's street, Gray realized with a groan that he was becoming aroused just thinking about her. He had a woody for a dead woman—how twisted was that?

And dear God,
why now
, on top of all his other problems? A few months ago he'd been fine—okay, he'd been full of guilt and regret over her death, but at least that was within the bounds of normal—but now his life had morphed into an episode of Brynne's favorite TV show, about the pair of brothers who hunted destructive demons and the like.

Her favorite as in she
really
liked that show—the only time she ever got pissed at Gray and showed it was when he'd called one of the heroes stupid for walking into a dark alley when the guy knew bad shit was about to go down. Brynne had given Gray a glare like he'd stepped on her puppy, and shushed him. Gray had kept his mouth shut for the rest of the program, which was actually enjoyable, although he hadn't admitted that to her.

Maybe he should've watched every episode with her, and run his mouth the whole time. Maybe that would've broken through to her, shown her he was just a selfish a-hole, not someone for whom she should bother to try and be so ... perfect.

He'd never been able to convince her that she was her prettiest first thing in the morning, when she woke up beside him with her face free of makeup and her hair all mussed, wearing nothing but one of his too-big tees.

Or that conversely, he’d hated it when she sat beside him in public like a beautiful doll and agreed with everything he said. That had embarrassed the hell out of him, like he was the kind of stuffed shirt who needed a 'Yes, Daddy' kind of woman to feel like a real man.

Or that the night of their final fight, when she screamed at him that she hated him, that she'd done everything for him and it still wasn't enough, and she was done trying—that had been the truest emotion he'd ever seen from her.

For the first time, he'd respected her, for standing up to him and showing a backbone.

And then she'd gone and died … and now he had to live the rest of his life knowing it was his fault.

By the time he carried the bag of supper up onto Gran's porch, Gray had lost his appetite. He walked into the house, not bothering to turn the lights on, shoved the bag and containers into the fridge, and grabbed another beer. He had the cap twisted off and the first mouthful down before he realized maybe this wasn't his best idea, drinking more on an empty stomach. He hesitated, and then took another swig. The hell with it.

He'd drained half the bottle when a knock sounded on his front door.

He stood there in the little kitchen. The lights inside the house were off, so maybe whoever it was would go away. He was not in the mood for the neighbors, nice as they were.

The knock sounded again, this time hard enough to rattle the door. With a muttered curse, Gray strode back through the living room, hitting the wall switch for the porch light as he got there.

He yanked the front door open, ready to get rid of whoever it was.

CHAPTER THREE

Gray opened his mouth, but instead of saying 'It's late, I'm tired, come back tomorrow', he took one look at his visitor and froze, mouth open, eyes wide, breath frozen in his chest.

Then she moved, and he stumbled backward with a hoarse, wordless shout of horror.

It was Brynne!

Only not the Brynne he remembered—fashionably dressed, hair perfect, makeup dewy.

This Brynne looked like she'd been at the bottom of a lake—stone cold dead.

Her hair hung down, half-over her face, the fine strands knotted with dried bits of water-weeds still green and slimy looking. Through the filthy skein, her skin was pale, with a grayish cast. Her clothes were bedraggled, stuck to her with mud and stained with water.

And her eyes, staring at him through the tangle, were wide and fixed on him like eerie blue spotlights.

"Gray ... son," she intoned, in a flat, monotone rasp. "I am here." As she stepped toward him, dried muck or something worse fell from her hair and landed on the doorstep.

Gray moved backward again, his heart pounding, all of him shaking with terror and adrenaline, shaking his head to try and clear it.

Hell, he wasn't
this
drunk ... was he? He must be, because he was hallucinating—had to be. There must've been something extra in the beer—peyote, or something. Yeah, that was common down here in the southwest. Wouldn't put it past some joker to spike a six-pack and then sit back to watch what happened.

Had to be that. Because for Brynne to be actually
here
, she'd have to be a zombie ... or he was dreaming again.

Except that he was halfway back into his Gran's sitting room, the carpet soft under his shoes, and he could feel his heart racing, taste the beer in his mouth and he could smell his unwanted guest—not a dead smell, just a kind of dank, sour smell.

She stopped a foot away, and realization hit him like a blow to the chest. He could see her, he could smell her, she was molting mud and crap on the carpet.

She was really here
—
in the flesh.

He held up one hand, fury racing through him, a welcome heat against the chill of horror.

"Wait a minute," he snarled. "This is some kind of sick joke, right? Who are you? You can't be her—you're some actress or something. Who put you up to this? Did someone pay you?"

Was this perpetrated by the same criminal sleaze who trashed his studio?

Except how could they have found someone with a body exactly like Brynne's—slender to the point of thin, with high, small breasts? And why was she wearing the exact kind of little sweater and lacy camisole Brynne had favored, and the same tight jeans.

His stomach dropped as he saw that her toenails were painted pale blue, what was visible through the dried muck, and she had a ring on one toe. He knew that toe ring—hell, he knew those toes.

He jerked his gaze up to meet hers again, horror overtaking the anger again. And her face—even half hidden with her filthy hair, he knew that delicate chin, and those blue eyes, those full, soft lips.

"Gray-son," she said, still in that weird, flat voice. "I do not understand. Are you not pleased to see me?"

"No," he managed, forcing his voice past the huge lump in his throat. "No—you can't be here. You're—
you're dead
. Your car went off the cliff and into the deepest part of the lake. Too deep to get your car or you out, but everyone knows you're there, because you'd never just ... disappear like that. And they found the place where you went off the road—the tire marks and your back bumper was still there, on a big rock."

He repeated the words like a litany, trying to convince himself and her.

She stared at him, her unblinking gaze sending a steady stream of shivers through him. And then anger blazed again--because
she was here
. She was
alive
. And that meant only one thing—someone else may be behind this, but she had helped set the whole thing up.

"You … you vindictive little bitch!" he gritted through his teeth, his fist clenching at his sides. "You let me think you were dead. You let your friends—your mom—all of us think you died. They had a church service for you. And tears were shed—did you think of that? Huh, did you?"

And some of them had been his own, not that he'd ever admit that.

He swept her with a searing look and his lip curled in disgust. Then he walked past her, opened the front door and gestured to the night outside. "Get out. You've had your fun, scared the shit out of me. Now you're done—and I for one never wanna see you again."

She turned on one bare foot to follow him with her gaze. Then her head cocked to the side, and she blinked.

The door jerked out of his grasp and flew shut with a slam that shook the wall and rattled the frame. The lock snapped into place.

Gray gaped at the closed door, and while his head was turned, a slender hand pressed against his chest, cold as ice through his tee.

"Sit," she ordered. Gray found himself shoved down onto the sofa with a force that sent it rocking back against the wall.

He stared up at her, his mouth open. What the hell? Brynne had never been that strong.

Didn't matter, he'd had enough. He canted his hips enough to dig in his jeans pocket for his phone, and pulled it out. She wouldn't leave, he was calling the cops. The local sheriff did not mess around. Then he’d get past her, because a little slip of a woman was not pushing him around.

He hit the button for 911 and stood again, glaring at her. "You won't leave, I'm not gonna man-handle you. Don't need another assault charge on my record."

"911, what is your emergency?" asked a calm voice.

"I need—" Gray's voice broke off with a choke as his phone twisted from his grasp and flew through the air, into Brynne's hand. She stared at it, her head cocked to the side in that weird way, almost as if she was listening to something only she could hear.

"911, what is your emergency?" the voice repeated, faintly.

"There is no emergency," Brynne monotoned. "Sorry to have disturbed you."

She peered at the phone. It made a strange popping sound and went silent.

Gray came off the couch. "You ... how did you do that? Gimme back my phone.
What the hell is going on here
?"

His voice rose with each word until he was nearly shouting, looming over her with his hands clawed, ready to do ... something.

She tipped her head back and looked up at him. "I am here to protect you. That is what is going on here, Gray-son Stark."

He looked her over—thin, bedraggled, infinitely fragile, like she needed to be in a hospital bed with round-the-clock care … and maybe a burly attendant to make sure she stayed there.

"
You?
You can't protect yourself, much less me. And you can't stay here."

"Why not?" The phone fell from her hand to the carpet. It bounced and lay silent and dark, mocking Gray with its uselessness, and his own inability to control this situation.

"Because—" because he wasn't sure he could control himself right now.

He was pissed off, he was freaked out, and he was experiencing a whole new level of grief, which pissed him off even more.

His beautiful Brynne was back, had never really been dead after all, but she had completely flipped out. She was exhibiting some form of mental illness. God, that was probably why she'd disappeared in the first place. Her screaming at him that night hadn't been a show of spirit, it had been mental illness manifesting.

But she was also exhibiting some characteristics he could not explain, such as her freakish strength. Despite her frail, back-from-the-dead look, he hadn't been shoved like that since he was up against a drunk biker twice his size.

The front door slamming shut ... that could've been a thunderstorm blowing in across the valley. Southwest storms were much more violent than those in North Idaho. And as for his phone—dead battery ... or something.

Meanwhile, she was waiting, staring at him through her filthy hair, and the smell coming off of her was getting stronger.

"Why can't I stay?" she repeated.

* * *

"
Brynne
," said a now familiar voice in her mind. "
Brynne. Wake now. Wake. You have arrived. You are with Grayson again. You must greet him."

Brynne blinked, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Her hair was all stuck to her face, and there was a clump of something in front of her eye.

And what was that smell?
Euw
, it smelled like wet, muddy swimsuits and towels left to dry on the floor instead of laundered. And it was coming off of
her
! What was going on? Had she passed out and ended up in the east end of the lake, where it was shallow and swampy?

Then she focused, and her eyes widened in sheer, bewildered joy.

Grayson
. Gray stood before her. Tall, broad-shouldered and handsome, his tanned skin and shoulder-length blond hair gilded in the lamplight. But where were they? And why was he scowling at her as if she was something disgusting he'd discovered on the bottom of his shoe?

And what had he just said to her? Something unkind. "I—I can't stay here?" she repeated, his words echoing in her head. "But why, Gray?"

Couldn't he see that she was back—from where, she wasn't certain, just that it had been dark and cold and she'd been alone, more alone than at any time in her life.

Then the warm, golden glow had appeared, and she wasn't alone anymore. Instead, she was carried up, up and away through the warm summer night, through starlight and moonglow and dry, fragrant desert air ... to this place. And now Gray was here—
her
Gray.

"Why can't I stay?" she repeated, her voice shaking now, as were her legs. She felt awful, weak and chilled. Had she been ill, was that why she smelled so bad?

"Because you stink," her lover said, his lip curling as he gave her a look that was filled with distaste. "Brynne, you're obviously not well. Listen, why don't you go have a nice, uh, warm shower—make it a long one. I'll wait here."

He was stepping back, and the look on his face, the stiff stance of his strong, lean body, the harsh set of his mouth said he wanted her gone now.

With a moan, Brynne shook her head. No, no, this was all wrong. This couldn't be right—what was happening to her?

"
Oh, no
," said her secret voice, the glow brightening until Brynne was warm again. "
This is not going according to plan. Brynne, go back to sleep. All will be well. Sleep now."

Brynne let go, and let her secret voice take over.

* * *

Gray watched Brynne warily. For a moment there, she'd looked so lost and hurt, he'd nearly opened his big mouth and told her not to fret, that he was here and everything would be okay. But now she was back to giving him the strange look that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He needed to get to the neighbors and use their phone to call 911 the minute the shower went on.

Brynne cocked her head again, retreating a step.

"I perceive that this odor and appearance may be offensive," she said, the raspy, flat voice back. "I will utilize your shower."

"Great. Towels are clean, just changed them out today. Just toss your clothes in the hall—no, make that the garbage. I'll ... find you something to wear."

Without another word, she turned and walked away along the short hallway, paused to peer into the dark bathroom, then walked in. The door shut behind her, the light went on.

Gray listened, not moving or breathing. The moment he heard the shower hissing quietly behind the closed door, he picked up his phone and shoved it into his pocket, then headed for the back door.

He was outside, across the narrow strip of back lawn, and vaulting over the fence to Topper's back yard in a moment.

Strangely, his Gran's neighbor was waiting for him on her back porch. He was up her steps and lifting a hand to knock on her door when Topper appeared from the deep shadows, the light from his porch glinting on her hair. "Hello, Grayson."

"Christ!" He skidded to a stop, his hands up before him, then blew out a hard breath. "Whoa, sorry, you startled me.” He blinked and looked again. Was her hair purple? Yes, it was. It had been a sort of pale tangerine yesterday.

“Listen, I need your help."

She gave him a bland look. "Tell me."

"Hard to know where to begin," Gray said, shoving a hand through his hair. "Ah, my old girlfriend just showed up. She's been ... gone, for months. We all thought she was dead. Now she looks like a—a ghost, she's filthy and she's talking nonsense. I need to use your phone to call the sheriff and the EMTs. She needs to be somewhere ... safe."

Somewhere they'd look after her, treat her like gold and somehow find the old Brynne and bring her back. She may have been annoying as hell, but she didn't deserve her present state.

Topper came closer. She put a hand on each of his arms, giving him a look of sympathy. "Grayson," she said. "I'm afraid I can't do that."