Gypsy's Blood (Page 4)

Tearing my throat raw with the violent coughs, I finally reach the outside.

Doubling over with my hands on my knees, I try to breathe air into my starving lungs, but I’m burning up and struggling on which hell is currently worse. The heat is licking up my veins, and I feel like I’m on fire, as I start shedding my clothes as quickly as possible, cursing the day I decided I liked Anna enough to try and save her.

“I don’t think it worked too well! I feel the urge to tell you I spent five years possessing Bonnie’s body when she was fucking Clyde, and I’m pretty sure that’s a lie!” she calls out as I heave for more air. “Or is it? Did you fuck Clyde while making me watch?” she calls out with an indignant gasp, taking an abrupt turn with no blinker to warn me.

Utter failure. I possibly have chemical burns on my internal organs for no reason at all.

“No, I did not fuck Clyde,” I bite out in frustration. “The only Clyde I know has four legs and a long snout, and before your sick mind goes there, I will kill you for making any disgusting jokes like that—”

My words stop short when I see a man barely grinning, as though he’s entertained. His eyes rake over my Ghost Busters panties and a bra that I actually made. I’m a terrible seamstress, so the bra is horrendous and makes my nipples look unintentionally pointed in different directions. And maybe slightly warped…

Why? Just why?

“My life sucks so hard,” I mutter under my breath as I pinch the bridge of my nose, putting my other hand on my hip, as I exhale harshly.

After an awkwardly silent moment of collecting myself, I lower my hand and stare at his long, darkish hair first…because, it’s not the norm. Long hair on guys doesn’t usually work, but…some exceptions are definitely legit.

He’s tall and rough around the edges with just the right amount of beard. In fact, he’s the sort of gorgeous specimen that will no doubt have Anna spewing all kinds of crazy sex lies the second she—

“Ooooo la la. Hello, you sexy, devilish savage,” Anna purrs, appearing beside me. “Tell him I’m a porn star from the nineties. Or was it early two-thousands when they started keeping the downstairs painfully tidy?” she asks, tapping her chin with her index finger while seriously deliberating the matter.

Sometimes she knows she’s lying but enjoys it. Sometimes she has no clue if she’s lying at all. The urge to lie is growing stronger, regardless of which kind of lie she’s telling.

“Can I help you?” I ask the man, not even bothering to scrape together my dignity by this point.

Anna takes a lot out of me.

He gives me an incredulous look.

“Just to be safe, tell him I have a neatly trimmed landing strip instead of the tangled forest,” Anna goes on. “I’d check to see what’s actually down there, but I can’t physically move my underwear,” she adds while passing her hand through her pelvis.

I need to start carrying around salt.

“Rather odd way to introduce yourself, don’t you think, little Portocale?” the man asks in a weirdly sexy gravel-like tone that doesn’t usually do it for me.

He’s an anomaly, it seems. Wrong hair. Wrong voice. Entirely too tall. Much too broad shouldered—he could crush me. Still, it’s like it all just works on him, for whatever reason, and even at this terrible moment, I simply can’t help but notice just how well it works.

I’m genuinely too emotionally vulnerable to be cold and dismissive of attractive men right now.

Anna makes several thrusting motions because she doesn’t have a functioning brain cell.

I’m a little distracted by the fact he seems oddly amused, which quickly reels my headspace back in to the fact Anna is humming Ghost Busters…and actually singing the part about there being something strange in the neighborhood.

When she wildly points to me and thrusts her hips again, it becomes abundantly clear I did something awful in a previous life to deserve the shit that happens to me.

“I’m Carmine, not Portocale. I’m not related to the Portocale family by blood,” I reply on autopilot, recovering from the surprise of having an audience who…looks like him. “And if seeing a girl in her fashionable underwear isn’t a memorable first impression, then I don’t know what is.”

“Are you trying to be memorable?” he muses.

“Seems that way,” I chirp, not missing a beat. “If you’re a client, I’ve been working on your supply list. Deliveries will start as soon as Monday, and I swear I will be clothed during all future encounters.”

“Prude,” Anna pops off immediately. “I’d pull that hair of his while asking him who’s been a naughty savage,” she adds, mocking a playful bite in the air.

Heaven help me.

“I’m Emit Morrigan. Head of House of Morrigan,” he informs me as he intensely studies me, absently running a hand over his beard.

Yep. I’m off to a great start. One of my other wealthy clients, who will help afford a good life, is getting a memorable first impression of me.

“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Morrigan. I usually wear clothes. Would you like to come inside?” I ask, the overheating gone as I quickly start pulling my clothes back on.

All my necklaces are clanging together, the protective charms tangling and jingling as I jostle around, drawing more gloriously awkward attention my way with the noise.

A few other people are on the street and gawking. Some are taking pictures…or possibly live-streaming this entire situation, so I make sure to hide my face and just give them my mostly panty-clad ass. The fun never ends.

I’m going to be the crazy gypsy girl of the town. Awesome.

I was the crazy gypsy girl in the last town too. Shit happens.

As soon as I’m dressed, I notice him staring skeptically at the entryway.

“Is it safe?” he asks.

I glance inside, and then look back at him. “Good question.”

He gives me a dubious look. “Are you sure you’re going to be capable of recreating Marta’s products?”

“Aunt Marta was gifted and admittedly better, but I’m good at what I do. I’m testing out some new stuff. Trial and error comes with new territory, but I have a gypsy to bless the stuff,” I explain, feeling more confident once I’m fully covered. “But as a show of good faith, I’ll run in and get you a sample pack.”

The second I turn my back on him, I hear him ask, “Are you sure you’re not a Portocale?”

Frowning, I glance over my shoulder, not showing any outward signs of the growing knot of worry that is spreading with each person who questions me.

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

While I have some things in common with all the Portocale gypsies, I’ve never had their signature features, such as the eyes, the curly hair, nor the perfectly almond skin tone.

For the most part, I have my Dad’s genes. I look just like his grandmother when she was my age. I’ve had to hear that my entire life, no matter the age.

His jaw relaxes slightly, and I note that he looks late twenties or early thirties as he allows his sinfully playful lips to curve in a secretive grin. “No reason.”

Great. He’s a weirdo with soulful and secretive eyes, distracting lips, and vague responses after asking me probing questions. Does he have to wear a sleeveless shirt? Why does he have to have arm porn?

Those athletic pants should not look that sexy. He’s one of those annoying people who make slouchy clothes look fashionable, while also looking like…well, a sexy savage, as Anna has pointed out. I’m not telling her that, though.

Shaking off the silly distraction, I jog up the steps and through the house, coughing a little at the lingering vapor.

Quickly, I retrieve a small box with my sample work, and bring it back out, ignoring the slight burning in my veins and the urge to strip again when I emerge.

Really glad he didn’t come in now. I’d probably have lost the account.

If the lingering vapor is working that strongly on me, a normal person would probably be running around and screaming in pain.

He accepts the box of vials, but he’s still staring at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. It’s the way Vancetto stared at me.

“I can’t believe you’re doing a drug deal in broad daylight,” Anna says on a horrified gasp.

“Try it out and see if it’s close enough. The three on the right are your recreational—”

“Drugs,” Anna says like she’s finishing my sentence, and I clear my throat before continuing.

“—orders. The ones on the left are for healing.”

“Healing?” he asks, sniffing it and wrinkling his brow.

“My own recipe.”

“Interesting,” he says with a growing grin, his eyes once again raking over me. “You don’t have the traditional Portocale eyes.”

“Well, I’m not a Portocale.” I’m not sure why he’s making this an issue, but again, I trust Mom wouldn’t do business with men who would kill her.

She wasn’t taken by surprise because she turned her back on the wrong person. She was hunted down. That much I know, due to the vague voicemail she left me the night of her death.

“Your eyes are very unique,” he goes on, taking a step too close for my comfort, staring at me so intensely, as something almost palpable in electric energy moves between us.