The Blood Bundle, Books 1-2: Blood Singers and Blood Song (New Adult Paranormal Vampire/Shifter Romance) (68 page)

Two words.

Final.

Complete.

Desolate.

I feel my fingers clench the armrests of
the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.

If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see
my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.

Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to
the softly glowing X-ray reader.

I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft
tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit
surface.

The light glows around the tumor,
immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of
disregard.

Just the facts, ma’am.

I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak
of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his
prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.

I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged
by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a
twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.

Actually, I do have time—months.

It's just not enough.

I look at the mess that's my brain, at the
damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a
vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom.
For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own
greets me.

Mitchell, Faren.

I back up and Matthews reaches to steady
me.

But it's too late.

I spin and run out of his office as his voice
calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the
metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a
time.

I see my car parked across the street and race
to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't
deny.

I miss the hit as if it happens to someone
else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my
peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow
spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a
breath-stealing slap.

I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg
for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale
that tears through my lungs.

The wet road feels cool against my face as I
watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head
aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers
twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.

Powerless.

The doctor is too late with his condemning
words. I've already died. I know this because the man who
approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's
a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage,
walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I
try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my
command.

My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep
brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.”
His voice is a deep melody.

I sigh. Safe.

I try to focus on him but the helmet he
parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.

There's a scuffle and I try to move to see
what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand
around my smaller one and smiles. “It's going to be okay.”

That's when I know I'm not in heaven.

That's what people say when nothing is
okay.

One month prior

I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and
do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put
on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.

Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.

I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go
through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my
emails.

Faren, can you cover my shift?
Faren,
can you come in a half hour early?
Faren, can you bring the
main dish for the office pot luck?

Delete, delete, delete.

I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no.
Tough lessons in life have taught me that.

I put my handgrip on the corner of the end
table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost
straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No
one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.

I leave my laptop open and walk back to the
stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in
the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter
egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift
it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as
I've been taught.

As I teach others to do.

I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh,
forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup
handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that
my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.

The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the
wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live
in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I
sigh. I want to chop off my hand.

I want to cradle it against my chest because it
still works. Just not perfectly.

Like my life.

*

“Another headache?” Sue asks.

I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as
I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan
who's up first.

Bryce Collins
. Pain. In. My. Ass.

I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They
make it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the
door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out
equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the
sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.

A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I
could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents.
We can compare later.

Right now, it's all about the work.

“Hi, Bryce.”

He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first
merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the
center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our
struggles.

And our triumphs.

I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the
motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop
my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my
touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look
that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he
finally digs in.

An hour later, shaking and sweating, Bryce's
huge and muscled body lumbers outside my door. He pauses as he
opens it, looking at me with pissed off brown eyes.

“I hate you, Miss Mitchell,” he says and means
it.

I smile back. I totally get it. Bryce needs to
hate me to get better. It beats hating himself. I nod. “I
know.”

He walks out, and I run my finger down the
patient appointments for the day. Kiki makes her loud entrance, and
my lips twist. She balances chai tea in both hands, staggering in
too-tall heels that sink into the nearly bald carpet.

“Gawd!” she huffs as she winds her way through
the ellipticals, weight machines, and treadmills. She leans against
the walking bars that run like railroad tracks for those with dual
injuries. Like both legs not working.

I swallow and force my smile back in place.

“Take your tea, you ungrateful bitch,” she
squeals, handing me my tea.

I blow on it. A touch of honey and ginger rise
through the vapor, and I grin over the rim of the cup as I sip
through the little slot.

“So?” I ask in a purr.

Kiki is pure drama. It's only Monday, so we have
the entire week to build up to a crescendo. Mondays are usually
sedate, so I brace myself. I have thirty minutes until my next
client arrives to be tortured into wellness. Kiki smirks, sets down
her tea, and moves to the pole. I give a furtive glance around the
gym, hoping no one comes in.

“Got a…” She wraps around the pole and slides
down it seductively, letting her butt cheeks split as she wiggles
and bounces at the bottom. She springs up, the front of her hoohah
a hairsbreadth from the cool metal. “Ginormous tip this weekend
from a richie!”

She thrusts forward, wrapping one slender leg
around the pole, and I groan. She does a little mock-hump against
it and grins at me.

Kiki is so inappropriate I could die. But she's
my drug and I'm hers. We fit together because we're so different.
She's an exotic dancer who's also a senior at Northwestern
State.

She makes great money, and she also does serious
gym time, packing in an hour six days a week. It's important to not
look too striated, Kiki claims. No “guy-look.” Just tits, ass, and
curves with definition. I designed the workout for her because I’m
intimately familiar with the human body. I didn't set out to be,
but life had other plans.

The sins of the past become the direction of our
future.

Kiki pouts, leaves the pole, and saunters toward
me. “You're no fun.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay... I know I've got to ask
the burning question or we'll get nowhere.”

She perks up. “You got it, sister.”

“Who was it?”

Kiki always takes stock of clients. Men think
they know so much, but women could rule the world if we came
together. I sigh. Kiki notices regulars, high tippers, newcomers
and flags the creeps. She's scary uncanny. I came to watch a set at
the prestigious strip club,
Black Rose
,
and went away shocked.

Shocked by the clientele, shocked that Kiki
could dance that well for such a short time, and shocked by the
moolah.

“The owner,” Kiki whispers as if we have a
secret.

I shrug. “So?”

“It's Jared-effing-McKenna, baby!” Kiki is
offended by my deliberate ignorance. Her brows rise to her
hairline, and her dark eyes are wide with clear disdain.

Mine are steady with indifference.

The wheels of my memory spin.
Oh yes.
Jared McKenna.
The
Jared McKenna. Greek god. Adonis
incarnate. Hercules. Playboy, womanizer, money mogul.

I slowly nod. Let's add “strip club owner” to
the repertoire. I remember the detail of
why
he has so much
money and want to forget as soon as I do.

Kiki pouts and tears off the lid of her tea.
“Anywho... he was with someone, and his pal tipped me big time.”
She sips her cooling tea, gazing at me with “cat that ate the
canary” eyes.

“Okay, the foreplay is killing me. How much?” I
take a small slurp of tea, and she tells me. The tea sprays out of
my mouth, and Kiki grins at my klutzy-ass move.

“Five hundred dollars!?” I choke some more, and
tea dribbles down my chin.

“It's okay, baby... it
is
a mind-blower.
I mean,” her hands go to her ample chest in patent disbelief, “my
nipples got hard and he didn't even touch me,” she says sincerely
and I burst out laughing. My headache is gone for the moment, my
Monday morning lethargy lifting.

Five hundred bucks is an assload of cash,
especially for one night of dancing half naked. It's more than I
take home every week.
Just one tip.
My schooling is done, my
career path set partly because of circumstance.
Kiki is high on drama, but doesn't always say things without
a purpose and I narrow my eyes at her.

“
Spill it,” I
demand.

Kiki's lips twitch and she chucks her empty
cup in the trash. “This type of gig could be the thing to get you
out of that dump in downtown.”

I scowl. I like my downtown dump.

“Faren!” she wails.

I shush her before Sue comes in thinking someone
died. Of course, with all the sounds of torment she's heard since I
began working here last year, nothing should faze her.

Kiki relents and switches to a softer tone.
“You could own something. Something nice.”

I know this. I've been to her condo
overlooking Pike Place and Puget Sound. Her view of downtown is
magnificent. And expensive. It had to set her back five hundred K.
I rent my death trap for nine hundred per month, and it's a studio
in one of the tortuously small cobblestone-lined alleys of Seattle.
At least it's on the fifth floor. The stairs are murder, but if I
want two windows that actually face outside, that's what I can
afford. Sometimes the freight elevator works; otherwise, it's
exercise. The location allows me to walk to my upper-scale
rehabilitation clinic. No need to use my beater car. That much.

“You don't have to give this up,” Kiki says
quietly. She knows I won't budge on that, and she of all people
knows why.

Rehab’s not a well-paying profession. But
there's more than money, sometimes the soul needs edification.

I look at what Kiki has and what I don't. I
shove those thoughts away. She's my best friend. She's seen me
through everything. Dark shadows press in, and my headache returns
with a throbbing vengeance.

Kiki frowns. “Another headache?”

“
Yeah.”

“
I don't want to argue, Faren.
You've got to know that.” Her root beer eyes peg me to the spot.
The sweep of her dark hair lays like chocolate silk past her full
breasts. “But with your looks”—she throws her manicured hands in
the air—“you could shake your booty a little and work a side job.
Get a place in your same area... you could own
something.”

It's an old argument. Her penthouse is
nearly paid for while mine's a rental with a landlord that cares
more about the rent than maintenance.

Her eyes swim with knowledge, and I set down
my tea. It's too cold to drink anyway. Her words put the last nail
in the coffin of my resistance. “Something secure,” she adds in a
whisper and I let her hug me. I cling to her and try to believe my
financial troubles and dark secret can be erased by taking off my
clothes for strangers