In Good Hands (9 page)

Finally, she could lean down toward him and grab him by the ears. Then she said two words directly to his face.

“Condom. Now!”

H
E EXPLODED INTO HER.
He didn't think he could do it again, and yet here he was, erupting like a teenage boy. At least they'd made it to her bed this time. After they'd finished the best damn yoga practice he'd ever imagined, they'd stumbled to her futon. She'd spooned back against him, murmuring something about closing her eyes for just a minute. But at that moment, he'd realized how very wonderful she smelled. No perfume, no special herbal scent, just her and the scent was surprisingly sweet. So he'd nuzzled closer to her. And once that close, he had to taste her neck because it was right there. Then his hands naturally found her breasts because they were the perfect size and he loved the way she murmured—half hum of delight, half growling purr—when he squeezed her in just the right way. She'd arched back into him, rolling her hips in a circle against him and, bam, they were at it again.

He'd barely gotten the condom on—thank God she had a whole box—and then he'd entered her from behind while fingering her from the front.

She'd gasped at his penetration, but then quickly fell into his rhythm. And once again, he'd found something especially wonderful about her. As she built to climax, whether they were going slow or extra fast, her entire body entered the process.
And from this angle, he got to watch it all. He could see how her eyes fluttered with the building waves, how her hands clutched the sheets when she couldn't reach him. Even her toes got into the process as she wrapped her legs back around his, her toes curling tight into his body. Damn, she was flexible! And so incredibly beautiful.

He was able to delay his release as he focused on her. But the moment she began to contract, he lost all control and let himself go. Grabbing her undulating hips, he rammed into her one last time and exploded. Again. This was hands down the best night of his entire life.

Twenty minutes later, he felt her murmur something against his arm. She had to repeat twice before he understood her.

“We were supposed to meditate.”

“I touched heaven. Does that count?”

She chuckled, her body shaking slightly—comfortably—against his. “I think you touched it a couple times.”

“I still am,” he said as he tightened his belly and thrust a bit, letting sensation roll through his consciousness. He was still buried deep inside her, but lassitude was making his brain fog out.

“God,” she said as he felt her eyelashes flutter closed against his skin. “You are
so
not gay.”

He tucked her tighter against him, then closed his own eyes. “We better do this again in the morning,” he said. “Just in case I've been faking it the whole time.”

He fell asleep to her laugh.

 

H
E WOKE TO THE SOUND
of a blender. A really loud, high-powered blender. It took him a moment to orient to the strange futon, strange room, strange…everything. Lord, his entire body hadn't felt as relaxed and happy since he was a kid on the first day of summer vacation. He stretched slowly, letting
his body come awake with the movement while his mind scrambled to remember.

Oh, yeah. Elevator. Yoga. Bedroom snuggling. Best Night Ever. His smile grew as the blender finally switched off, and he scrambled out of bed. Two minutes later, he was pulling on his trousers and anticipating the Best Saturday Ever when a male voice penetrated the thin bedroom door. The words were spoken rapid-fire in a kind of manic desperation, and Roger leaned forward to hear better.

“Come on, Doc. You know these are the best there are. Handmade. Beautiful. You want the whole lot—I can see that you do. Isn't this beautiful? Quality. I'll sell you the whole lot for a couple thousand. Seriously. A steal.”

Roger opened the bedroom door quietly. He only wore his trouser pants, not seeing the need to pull on his shirt. He located Amber immediately. She was in the kitchen pouring some green smoothielike substance into a glass while at the breakfast bar, a lanky twentysomething with sagging jeans shifted his weight back and forth between his two feet. Before him stretched a long line of dream catchers of all sizes, some quite elaborate.

“See how beautiful they are? This is fine quality work, you know. Look at these stones! Come on, Doc. Look at them!”

Amber obediently looked at the ornaments. She even stroked a finger across the feather of one of the larger ones. Then she passed the man a tall glass of puke-green smoothie.

“Aw, come on, Doc. You know this drink is crap.”

Amber didn't answer. Just poured herself another glass and began to sip.

“What about the dream thingies, Doc?” the man continued. “Quality, huh? Real quality.”

Again, Amber didn't speak, just stood there drinking her smoothie. Roger stepped into the room, moving toward the breakfast bar. She saw him immediately, her eyes lighting with
warmth. Her visitor, however, still had his back to Roger as he continued to bounce back and forth on his feet.

“Tell you what, tell you what, Doc. I'll give it to you for eight hundred. It's a steal, I'm telling you. And it hurts me to do this. Seriously. But I like you. You been real nice to me, so I'm going to cut you a break.”

Amber turned and pulled out another tall glass from her cabinet. Roger noted with pleasure that she wore yet another yoga outfit, and the fitted bottoms gave him all sorts of wonderful ideas. Much less wonderful was the way her visitor stilled for a moment, no doubt watching exactly the same sleek tush that Roger had noticed.

A surge of possessive instinct tightened Roger's muscles. He moved faster now, coming to Amber's side to wrap an arm around her hips and draw her close. It was a domination move accented by a kiss on her lips that was more for the newcomer than Amber. Not that she didn't seem to enjoy his kiss, but Roger's attention remained fixed on the other guy.

“Good morning,” Roger said when they were done, his gaze warming as he looked into her eyes.

“Good morning to you,” she returned. Then she pushed him away. “And stop being such a possessive Neanderthal. Roger, this is Spike. Spike, my friend Roger.”

Okay, so she had known exactly what he was doing when he'd greeted her. He felt a twinge of guilt over that, but this Spike guy made him nervous. The man looked even worse up close. Unshaven, dirty, and with a hardness in his eyes that worried Roger. Still, he kept his tone neutral as he faced the man.

“Spike, huh? Did your mother really give you that name?”

“Nah. But everyone calls me Spike 'cause I look like that dude on
Buffy.
I'm mean and fast. People are afraid of me.”

Like James Marsters? Only if the actor lost thirty pounds,
got bags under his eyes and slept in his own piss for a week. But Roger didn't say any of that. He just arched a brow and looked over the array of dream catchers on the counter. They were beautiful.

“So these are yours?” He allowed skepticism to color his tone.

“Yeah, yeah.” Spike tried to slide into a coy look. “And the doc wants them real bad. If a guy wanted to get in her good graces, then he might buy them for her. So she can resell them to her patients, you know, and make a killing.”

Roger allowed a cold smile to settle onto his features. “I don't think I need any help getting into her good graces.”

Then Amber spoke, her voice low and soothing. “Who made them, Spike? Who made the dream catchers?” Roger found himself turning to her, a frown on his face. Her words seemed to have a weight to them, a power for no obvious reason. It wasn't in her tone or even her body stance, but when she spoke, both he and Spike turned to listen.

“A girl,” Spike answered, his voice ratcheting up. “Got them from her cheap so I can turn that cheap on to you. Five hundred, Doc. And I'll even drink your green crap.”

So saying, he reached over and started gulping her smoothie. Amber smiled and she motioned to the glass she had set in front of Roger.

“That one's yours.”

Roger did his best not to look at the color, but it was in his mind as he took his first tentative sip. Nice. Fruity and a little sweet, but in a healthy, non-sugary, almost tasty kind of way. Spike finished his with a loud gasp, then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“So, Doc. Ya got cash? I mean, I trust you and all. Your checks are good by me, but cash is always better. Saves me from going all the way to the bank, you know.”

Amber didn't respond except to sort through the pile of
dream catchers until she finally lifted up one of the smaller ones. Flipping it over, she read a white tag that fluttered underneath. “Sweet Dreams handcrafted by Moira. She's even got a website listed.”

Now Spike was visibly nervous and he leaned forward across the bar, his expression verging on aggressive. “I need the money, Doc. You gotta pay me for those before you start poking around in them.”

She sighed. “I'm not buying stolen goods, Spike. But I will trade you for the whole lot. I'll do a couple of sessions on you to try and help you out. I won't even go to the police.”

Spike's reaction was as fast as it was violent. He lunged across the breakfast bar screaming, “I didn't steal nothing!” Roger barely had time to get a hand up in front of Amber by way of protection. It wasn't all that helpful—Spike was stopped more by the breakfast bar than anything else. It gave Roger time to step fully between Amber and the psychopath.

“I think it's time you left, Spike,” Roger said coldly.

Spike fell backward, shifting with scary speed into apologetic. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just get angry when people mal-inform my good name, you know? You know?”

Spike tried to angle around Roger to look at Amber, but Roger kept himself firmly between the two. Meanwhile, Spike couldn't seem to stop talking.

“I didn't take the stuff, Doc. I'm not that kind of guy. I'm not! But I'm kinda in a bad fix, Doc. I need money or they're gonna hurt me. You hear that, Doc? They're gonna cut me if I don't pay. Just a few grand, Doc. I know you got the money.”

That was it for Roger. The guy was a real and present danger. So he maneuvered around the breakfast bar and started bodily advancing on Spike. He didn't have any illusions if it came to a fight. Roger might be larger and more athletic, but Spike was fast and likely very wiry. Plus he was obviously
desperate. A lucky blow and Roger would be on the ground. But that was a risk Roger was willing to take.

“You need to leave now,” he said as forcefully as possible.

“And you need to get out of my face!” Spike said, pushing back with a punch hard enough to make Roger grunt but not give ground.

“Stop it! Both of you!” snapped Amber as she came around the breakfast bar.

“Stay back, Amber!” Roger ordered, not that she listened to him. Instead, she turned her attention to Spike.

“You don't have to live like this, Spike. You can change. You have to try!”

“They're gonna cut me!” Spike spat at her.

Amber took a deep breath, guilt and fear obvious in her features. “God, Spike, then get out of town! Start over!”

“There ain't nowhere to run! I need money!” he shot back, then he lunged for Amber. A full body leap that Roger was barely able to catch. But he did catch the man and using all of his strength, he spun the bastard around and started marching him out the door.

“I'll do a session,” called Amber, her voice tinged with despair. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's all I can do.”

“Get off of me, man!” growled Spike as he jerked and twisted in Roger's grip. But Roger didn't give way. He just kept marching the guy to the front door. “I gotta get the catchers, man! Just let me get the catchers!”

“The police will get them,” Roger growled. “In fact the doc's calling 911 right now,” he said, praying it was true.

“No, Doc, I wouldn't hurt you! I just need the catchers. Get off of me, you—” Spike launched into a string of profanities. Roger tightened his grip and shot Amber a grateful look as she pulled open her apartment door. Sadly, there was no cell phone in her hand. She obviously hadn't dialed 911.

Roger marshaled all of his strength and shoved Spike out the door. The man stumbled, but recovered fast enough, whipping around with a snarl. At that moment, Roger had to admit to a real resemblance between Spike and his vampire namesake. Fortunately, he didn't have to fight the bastard. Just as Spike was gathering himself to run back inside, Roger managed to grab the door and slam it shut. Spike didn't make it through, hitting the metal with a loud thud. He did, however, stay there, banging on the door and hurling profanities through it.

Meanwhile, Roger turned back to Amber, his gaze scanning her from head to toe. “Are you all right?”

She looked pale, shaken, and her arms were wrapped protectively around her torso, but she managed to nod. “I'm fine. Thanks. Are you okay? Did he kick you or anything?”

Yes. The bastard had managed to land a few well-placed whacks, but nothing that wouldn't heal. “I'm fine. So where's my phone? I'll call 911 now, though you should have done it five minutes ago. What were you thinking letting him in here?”

She sighed, wincing as Spike jerked on the door. The thing held, but who knew for how long. So Roger turned toward the door and bellowed, “The police are on their way! I suggest you get lost now!”

Another loud round of curses was screeched through the door, but then there were heavy footfalls running away. Spike had apparently given up, and Roger released a breath in relief.

“His mother lives down the block,” Amber said, her voice apologetic. “She asked me to do some energy work on her son. To help him past his gambling addiction.”

“Yeah,” Roger drawled as he crossed to the kitchen. “That obviously worked out great.”

“You think I don't know that?” snapped Amber and Roger
immediately felt contrite. After all, it wasn't her fault that she lived in a neighborhood of addicts and nut jobs. But she really needed to move. Like yesterday.