Page 20 of Tested
Drawn to him. No matter what the cost.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see when he gets back,” I say.
“Yeah. We’ll have to wait and see.”
It’s still too light out for Trajan to go into the living room, so we settle on either side of the kitchen’s center island. For a minute I feel bad that I’ve got coffee and Trajan doesn’t have some vampire equivalent, but then I remember how well he fed last night and let it go.
“So, I’m also thinking about buying a house, something big enough for the three of us.”
I pause with the mug at my lips. “That’s a big step.”
He rests his elbows on the stone countertop, hands held palms-together as if he’s praying. “The odds that one of us does something to piss Betancourt off are better than even, and I’d prefer we don’t find ourselves out on the street.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I weigh my next statement carefully. “I got a stack of cash when I left the Elites, so I could go in on it with you.”
He doesn’t answer right away and when he does, it’s as if he’s speaking in the middle of an internal debate.
“But if you contribute, David will want to, and what twenty-three-year-old has…” His words trail off, and I’m left with the feeling that there’s more he doesn’t want to say.
Which might be okay.
My phone chirps and it’s Smith, wondering if I can meet him at some place called the MessHall Kitchen in Los Feliz. One of Adaline’s cousins is the manager and is willing to talk to us. I finish my coffee, pretty sure I need to respond to Trajan’s offer in a more constructive way. Living in Betancourt’s house gives our whole relationship a temporary feel. Buying something new? That’s permanent.
“However we finance it, we should probably talk with David first.”
Trajan grins at me from behind his praying hands. “I believe we’ve both learned that lesson.”
“It’d be nice, though, having a stable place to live.” I stand, pocketing my cell phone. “Your condo was big enough for both of us, but with three…I think a house would be better.”
“Me too.”
“I gotta go.”
Trajan keeps his seat but reaches out for me. We clasp hands and I lean in for a kiss. Even that light brush of lips lights a spark in my belly. I lean into him, laughing softly. “I am yours,mo shíorghrá. Wherever you go, I will follow.”
He holds my hand tighter. “What I want is for us to be together.”
“Me too.”
We’re silent for a moment, letting our eyes do the talking, and then I make a break for it before one of us drags the other onto the floor. Climbing into the rental, I feel a twinge of disappointment that David’s not around to make fun of my Taurus. “Ah well,” I murmur. “He’ll make up for it later.”
Maps of LA designate our neighborhood as the Bird Streets. Not only are we high up in the Hollywood Hills, but the streets have names like Warbler, Thrush, and Skylark. Our house is on the rather un-birdlike Doheny Drive, and to get down to Sunset Boulevard, I have to navigate a steep, hairpin turn. At the center of the turn, a black SUV with tinted windows is parked across both lanes.
Poole is at the wheel.
Colonel Parker N. Poole, Commander in Chief of the Elites. I stop the rental car because he’s not going to get out of my way. Hoping none of the neighbors need to get past our little roadblock, I climb out of the Taurus.
“Poole.” I nod a greeting. He’s got the classic square jaw and flattened nose of the Marine he used to be. Still has the regulation buzz cut, although the Securitas doesn’t require it. Too many of its members can change their appearance at will.
“I’m angry, Mack, and I know you know why.” He speaks the way some men shoot bullets, blunt and direct. “Though Brodie’s such a flake I should have known I would need to talk to you myself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you at headquarters in an hour or less. That’s assuming the traffic in this hellhole will let us get anywhere.”
My heart sinks. Smith needs the help a lot more than the Elites do. “Yes, sir.”
Poole throws the big SUV into gear and pulls a U-turn, heading down the hill. Thankful we didn’t cause any accidents, I follow. I also text Smith to tell him I’ll be late.
