Page 44 of Never Say Yes To A Stranger

“Isn’t it?”

I feel physically sick. She’s reading too much into this. Into me. This isn’t real. I’m not who she thinks I am, and even if I were, I haven’t told her everything because I can’t tell her everything. It’s still coming, but she doesn’t know it yet. She still has some misplaced faith in me. Maybe some feelings. I can admit we’re attracted to each other. Fuck, we popped off like a barn burner, and the whole damn house could have come down around us the last time we put the sharing in sharing a bed.

The heart I’m so unused to using, the heart I don’t want to use other than for regular bodily functions like exercise and living and breathing, rattles in my chest, beating strangely. “No. And I don’t want to change. People can only be helped if they truly want it. I don’t.”

Her small, sad smile makes me want to take it back. It makes me want to be better and to turn around and get back inside to safety and haul her with me. Right now, she’s not looking at me like I’m her bodyguard. She’s not looking at me like I’m an asshole. And she should be. She’s actually studying my forearms, and she has that glossed-over, sensual look on her face. I can tell she likes what she sees. I know forearm porn is a thing, but this can’t lead to anything ever again.

“I think you might be lying to yourself,” she informs me in the gentlest tone possible.

“I’m not lying—”

The wind gusts over both of us, tugging at my T-shirt and rippling her nightgown.

That’s it. We’re going back into the house right this second.

I go first without announcing it. I just turn and head directly for the window. I plan on getting there first and offering her my hand, and I’m not going to take no for an answer. This is crazy. We can see the damn moon without sitting out here on the shingles.

My fingers are nearly on the windowsill when my foot flies out from under me on a curled piece of shingle that doesn’t have as much grip as it should.

I haven’t been on a slide since I was a kid, but this is pretty much the adult version, with all the usual horror attached. At least, as a kid, I just worried about going down too fast and knocking myself unconscious. As my face grates against the shingles like they’re cheese graters—and shit, there’s enough traction there—I get a one-way ticket to my life flashing before my eyes.

Though it sounds more like a suspended scream above me.

Ignacia.

I might be going to die, but she’s the one who is going to have to see the splatter.

Fuck.

I rapidly get my hands to cooperate. My nails dig frantically, looking for a handhold. It’s funny how such a short drop seems to take forever when you’re going to die.

You’re not going to die. You know how to fall. You’ve been trained for worse.

My brain finally kicks into survival mode, giving me enough adrenaline that my reflexes wrench into overdrive. I can’t die before I finish this job. I can’t die before I tell her the truth. She’s going to find out after the fact and hate me, and dead Beau can’t defend himself. I shouldn’t want to defend myself, but I do. I don’t want her to hate me. Ever. And coming back as a ghost isn’t appealing. The first time around as a living being was rough enough, thanks.

My hand shoots out as I go airborne, and my fingers grasp the edge of the roof. There aren’t any eaves. Fuck. If there was just that lip, it might have saved me, stopped my fall, or slowed me down enough to get to the ground without breaking my skull.

Yeah, no.

I hit the air, twist as much as I can, and hit the ground on my feet. My legs crumple beneath me, taking the impact, but it’s okay. That crunch is all good. I can live with a broken leg, but I can’t live with a bashed-in face. Or rather, I don’t want to.

For however long the fall seemed to take, the ground came fast. Before I know it, I’m on my side and heaving into the grass, which is in my mouth. There is dirt and grass between my teeth, and it tastes like copper. Wait, no. That would be my own blood. My cheeks feel wet. Shit.

I lift a hand that feels completely numb, like it’s detached from my body, and feel. Yes, it’s wet. Am I crying? That would be a damn first. My fingertips come away red, and then I feel the burn. The nasty scrape from the shingles. Road rasp. Or rather, roof rash. Whatever. It did a number on me. The wetness isn’t tears. It’s blood. And the good news? My hand seems to be attached to my body, even though I can’t feel it.

“Beau!” Ignacia screams.

I crane my head and see her up there on the roof, frozen, terrified, horrified, motionless, and colorless. Anger surges in me again—anger from seeing her hurting or threatened. This time, I’m only mad at myself. I want to scream at her to be careful, but she tucks herself through the window, and the words die in my throat. I’m not sure I can make a sound anyway. Breathing is hard enough. If I didn’t bust a rib, I’d be lucky. I feel like a hot death. Winded or wrecked? I can’t tell which one I am.

“Beau! Oh my fucking god. No, please. No, no!” A granny-nightgown-clad angel who swears comes rushing out the door, her blonde hair streaming behind her. Then, she drops downon her knees in front of me, her fingertips brushing against my cheek. She’s not scared to touch me, but she knows she shouldn’t move me. Her hands hover by my head anyway. “Beau! Oh my god. I need to call an ambulance.”

“I’m alive,” I rasp. Ooh, words. Yay! Thank god, because I am not going to the hospital. “Unfortunately for you, the contract still stands.” It’s probably not wise to use my breath to goad her and be a jerk, but alas…

“Shut up about the stupid contract.” There’s no heat in that statement. She’s still so white, so frightened. I’m scaring her, and it makes me want to throttle my own stupid self right now. “Is anything broken?” She still doesn’t really touch me, but she leans over me, and wetness splatters my face. Her tears. She’s crying all over me.

I manage to roll myself onto my back and brain scan my own body. Everything hurts, but it feels more like a big bruise. I start flexing everything, and nothing seems broken, as far as I can tell, so I dig my hands into the dirt and get myself upright. My head swims, but it calms down soon enough. Before long, the world rights itself like my breath did after it returned to my lungs. My side aches like a mother, and it feels a lot like my face—raw and scraped to shit. Shingles: One. Beau: Zero. Hmm, no, it’s more like two for the shingles and zero for Beau since I did slip up there as well.

I lift the corner of my shirt up, and Ignacia gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth, and more tears stream down her cheeks. Her eyes look so much bluer at night, especially when they’re filled with tears. I’ve never hated myself more. She’s crying because of me. This is what it’s going to look like when I break the news to her about this job. And it haunts me.

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