Heat (50 page)

She stumbled back downstairs to the kitchen, as far as she could get from the anguished sounds he was making. She paced over the stone tiles, her hands digging at each other and her blood pounding in her ears.

He couldn’t help it. God, you had only to look at him to know that was true. She’d never seen anyone so far from horny in her whole life. She’d never seen anyone hurt so much. And she’d never seen anything so big straining at the front of someone’s pants.

Horror clenched at her again, that same old mindless panic. She rubbed at the bad side of her face, hating herself, hating the weakness that rode her like a rabid baboon on her back.
There’s a man in the house and he’s going to get me. Sooner or later, he’s going to get me
. The only thing worse than hearing that dull, mechanical drone eat up your brain when you knew it wasn’t true was suddenly facing the possibility that it might be true, it really
might
be.

‘It’s just the heat. He said so. It was nothing personal. Just the heat.’

She picked up the phone and the yellow pages, and looked up air conditioner repairmen. She called them all. It took two hours. The best offer she got was still better than a thousand dollars, and the soonest he could come would be some time in September. She made the appointment, knowing Tagen wouldn’t still be around, out of penance.

The TV was still on. She got up numbly and went to watch it, rubbing her stomach and wishing she had the nerve to go upstairs.

And do what? There were only so many times she could apologize before it lost all meaning. Besides…what if she interrupted him? What would he do? What would he expect?

She could see herself pressed facedown on the sofa-bed, her hands twisting in the sheets and her mouth open in silent screams. She could see her body rocking in the short, brutal jerks of his fucking. She could see it all, clear as day, and knowing he’d never do it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. She’d seen him look at her. She’d pretended not to for as long as she could, and then she’d pretended not to know why, but the clock was striking midnight now and it was time for the masks to come off. She’d seen more than idle curiosity in his covert gaze.

Yeah, and she’d done more than feign ignorance. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, right? And the truth was, hadn’t she liked it just a
little
when she felt his discrete stare gliding down her body? Hadn’t she found reasons to bend over or reach up, reasons to keep her back turned and her eyes occupied so he could really get in a good long look? And when she was up in the small hours of the night, hadn’t she heard the bad jazz of premium cable soft-core porn and felt that little sting of triumph, knowing he was watching and thinking, however absentmindedly, of her?

And now she was freaking out at the thought of him hard and hurting, when she had been so pleased, however secretly, at the idea that he found her desirable. When she’d spied on his naked body and thrilled to see it. When she had been curious, however uneasily, at what it might be like to be held by him. That wasn’t just neurotic, that was hypocritical and stupid.

Miserable, Daria sat down on the couch and stared into the open, pitiless eye of the television. It was still on CNN, Tagen’s second-favorite show of all time. Two reporters were grimly rehashing the morning report.

“—still have no suspects in what police are calling the Dog Pack murders, which occurred fifteen miles east of Blue Ridge and took the lives of thirty-six people. The bodies were found early yesterday afternoon and police believe the murders occurred the previous night in a gang-related execution-style spree. Although some of the victims were shot to death, many others were bound with duct tape and then killed with what has been described as a hooked instrument or pry bar. Sources at the crime scene have informed us that sufficient force was used to crack the skull of the victims into two pieces, and that pieces of the brain were ritually removed and left at the scene. Investigators refused to confirm this report, and instead said they are actively pursuing leads. We’ll have more on this shocking story as it develops, but first, a look at the local news.”

The second reporter waited until the camera turned on him and then solemnly said, “Authorities were called to a local hardware store earlier this morning when a full-scale riot broke out after store managers refused to honor rain checks issued for air-conditioners. Over fifteen people rushed the warehouse of the D-I-Y Depot, knocking over dozens of displays and stealing merchandise, as well as assaulting employees. Two victims were taken to the hospital and released after treatment.”

The screen chanced to show a man in a store apron, his face still chalky with shock. There was a bloody scratch on his forehead, and one of the lenses of his glasses was cracked. “Air conditioners are considered a seasonal item by the district operators and I don’t have any control over ordering or shipping them,” he was saying. “I issued those rain checks in good faith, but the backlog on those items was…was pretty long, and at a certain date, seasonal items just aren’t restocked. I tried to explain that and offer refunds, but they…they…just swarmed me.”

Another screen change, this time to a furious-looking woman in a sweat-damp tank top. “I’ve been on that waiting list since the beginning of June and now they tell me they’re not getting any more?! They’re getting leaf blowers! They’re getting plastic pumpkins! It’s the middle of July! It’s a hundred and eight degrees outside! I’ve got kids!”

Daria switched off the television and rubbed at her forehead. She was sweating. This had to be hell for Tagen. But what was she supposed to do about it?

The thought brought back a crushing nausea and Daria got up and wandered back to the kitchen, fighting tears. Tagen had really picked a prize when he came to her for help.

She cleaned up the dishes drying sticky on the table and put them in the dishwasher. She wiped down the countertops, the cupboard faces, and then cleaned out the sink. She still felt sick and stuffy-headed, so she ran a bucket of mop water powerful enough to make her eyes water. She got on her hands and knees and started scrubbing the kickboards, letting the pine-oil scented steam blow out and fill her senses.

“Oh Gods, must you?”

She turned, hugging the scrubber to her chest, and saw Tagen in the doorway. He was bare-chested, physically dripping sweat, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with the world’s worst headache painted across his face for the whole Earth to see.

“Sorry,” she said, and quickly began to gather the cleaning supplies. “I’ll open a window.”

When she returned from dumping her mop bucket, Tagen was sitting at the table, popping ice cubes from the tray one at a time and pressing them to his brow. His eyes were closed. He looked more than merely hot and hurt and tired. He looked like he was dying.

“I tried to call a repairman for the air conditioner,” she said. “It’s…not going to happen.”

He did not look up or respond in any way.

“They don’t have any in the stores right now, either,” she continued. “So we’re stuck with the heat.” Her hand was rubbing at the side of her face. She made it drop, and stuffed it into her pocket for good measure. “Tagen, I’m sorry. If I’d only known, I—”

“You would have done exactly what you did.” Now he looked at her, and the complete lack of accusation in his face was somehow the worst thing he could have done to hurt her. “You would have blamed me. Cursed me.”

“I was wrong. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I know.” His eyes slid shut again. He found another handful of ice blindly and brought it to his chest, rubbing slowly. “But that does not seem to stop you.”

Daria went to the freezer, blinking back tears, and brought him a bag of frozen peas. When she put it on the back of his neck, he hissed and leaned into her hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I keep forgetting you’re here to help me. Like you said, E’Var is hunting throw-away humans and you’re right. I’m one. It scares me…and you scare me…Tagen,
everything
scares me. Do you think I
like
that?”

“Sometimes.” His hand came up and pressed the bag of peas to his own neck, and she stepped away.

“I don’t,” she said. “I know I’ve done nothing but freak out since you got here. I hate myself for that.” She stood, twisting her hands together and staring at his unmoving back. “Please don’t give up on me.”

He sighed and finally glanced back at her. “I tell myself again and again to show you patience,” he said wearily. “I know that you are one of many, many humans I have known…but I am your first Jotan. I know you are doing your best.”

“I am,” she said. She pressed her palm over her bad side without any conscious thought, heartsick. “But my best sucks. I’m a horrible person. And it’s got nothing to do with you.”

Tagen sighed again, half-growling this time. He put the peas on the table. “Sit down,” he told her, and as she gingerly obeyed, he said, “Jota’s climate is very mild. Summer, as you call it, is short. We do not have heat like this more than a short span of days. My people live long. Our offspring are born two and three at once. We do not breed every time we sex. For us, breeding must be forced. The heat…forces us.”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his. She was almost shaking with the effort not to look down, to see the monstrous bulge he had been gripping earlier. All of her best intentions would be shattered if she had to see that, to face what he was and what he wanted from her.

“It…is a terrible pain,” Tagen continued, and looked it. “That is part of the necessity, to force us together to mate. It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with anything except the heat. We have medicines on Jota that prevent its effects, but I did not have enough and your Earth’s summer never ends. I cannot help it, Daria. I must do what I must do. It offends you, but I have no choice.”

“I understand,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “And I’ve got to be the only woman on the entire planet who would let you deal with it on your own when you’re here to save us from someone like E’Var.”

His brows were knitting together.

“I know what you want me to do,” she went on, speaking fast before she lost her nerve. “And it’s not fair of me, but I can’t, Tagen. I just can’t.”

He stared at her for a long time, his face gradually losing expression, a thing that made him seem even more formidable than his frown had been.

“Lindaria Cleavon.” His voice was very low and even, but his eyes were blazing, molten with emotion. He stood up slowly and leaned forward over the table, his hands pressed flat but the claws flexing ever so slightly. He looked down at her, fierce, unblinking, and quietly said, “I did not ask.”

Daria sat, feeling stunned and faintly embarrassed. Of course he hadn’t. He hadn’t given any indication whatsoever that he was even thinking in that direction. And once again, she had jumped at the chance to slap him down, this time, before he could even make a suggestion. In a tiny, creaking voice, she heard herself say, “Christ, even when I’m apologizing, I fuck things up.” She started to stand, her eyes brimming.

Tagen sighed and dropped back into his chair. “Sit down,” he said, rubbing at his eyes.

She didn’t want to, but she’d already insulted him once today. She sat, but kept her eyes on her hands as they knotted nervously on the tabletop. When she finally glanced up, she found he was watching her hands as well.

“What happened to you?” he asked softly, and raised his eyes to hers.

She felt her breath freeze in her throat but she couldn’t look away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, hearing desperation and despising it.

“And I did not want to ask,” he replied. “But it is better, I think, to do so than to go on pretending not to see it rotting between us in this way.”

Tears dug in at the corner of her eyes, blurring the sight of him and his unblinking patience.

The silence stretched out thinner and thinner.

“You have never told the story,” he guessed. That worry-line of his had faded in between his eyes.

Against her will, she nodded. “I did. At the trial.”

“How did you begin?”

She closed her eyes, started to cover them, and Tagen took hold of her wrists and forced them gently to the tabletop.

“How did you begin?” he asked again and would not let her look away from him.

“I was working at Kruegar and Lauder,” she said at last, because she could not think of any other way to start. “Shipping company. I was an export sales representative.” She started to try and find some way to explain these words to him, but realized that it made no difference to either of them. She went on. “I was living with a man, someone I worked with. His name was Dan Fiennes. We were talking about getting married, maybe. Maybe having kids. He said he loved me.”

She fell silent, trying to remember that, how that felt. It was funny how time and trauma combined to sponge out the best moments of a person’s life. She knew those days had once been real to her, but was unable now to recall any of the warmth and hope he’d inspired in her. What she remembered best in this moment was that Dan had hated the commute from her house, a forty-minute drive in the morning that could easily turn into two hours coming home in the right strain of rush hour. He wanted to move. She wanted to stay. He liked the city. She liked the woods. All those strings of little half-fights that so easily turned into make-up sex and simmering exasperation. But he’d said he loved her. She only wished she could still remember that.

Tagen let her be for several minutes, but as her gaze began to drift unhappily back to her hands, he squeezed her wrists to bring her back to him. “You worked at Kruegar and Lauder,” he pressed.

“And they hired someone,” she continued, and sighed. “A man named Traynor Polidori. When they asked him if he’d ever been arrested, he said yes. When they asked what for, he said stealing from a clothing store. I guess they were so impressed with his honesty that they never bothered to check and see if he was actually telling the truth.”

Tagen nodded and leaned back, his hands slipping from hers to fold together. He had never looked more like a cop to her than he did right then. It was as though he already knew everything she was about to tell him, and everything she wouldn’t. “What was the truth?”