Rapture (Fallen Angels #4)(16)
Author: J.R. Ward

“So.” Mels took another draw on her mug. “Any big plans for the day?”

Some kind of answer came back, but she didn’t hear it because the urge to leave was too loud.

Finishing off the last of her black coffee—her mother took hers with cream and sugar—Mels put the mug in the dishwasher and braced herself.

“So I’ll see you tonight,” she said. “I won’t be late. Promise.”

Her mother’s eyes rose to meet her own. That bowl full of wholesome goodness had little pink flowers on it, and the tablecloth had tiny yellow ones, and the wallpaper had larger blue ones.

Flowers everywhere.

“Are you all right?” her mom asked. “Do you need to go to the doctor?”

“It’s just a bruise. Nothing special.” She glanced out through the dining room. On the far side of the doily-laden table, past the milky white privacy curtain, a bright yellow Chevrolet pulled up. “Taxi’s here. I left my car at the bar because I’d had two and a half glasses of wine.”

“Oh, you could have taken mine into work.”

“You’ll need it.” She looked to the horticultural calendar hanging on the wall, praying there was something there. “Today you have bridge at four.”

“I could have gotten a ride. I still can, if you want to—”

“No, it’s better this way. I can pick up my car and drive it home.”

Crap. She’d just boxed herself in. The only way Fi-Fi was going anywhere was if she were on the back of a flatbed—the poor thing had been auto-evac’d to a local service station.

“Oh. All right.”

As her mother fell silent, Mels wanted to apologize, but it was too hard to put the complicated sorry into words. Hell, maybe she just needed to move out. Constant exposure to all that self-sacrifice and kindness was a burden to bear, instead of a joy to be relished—because it never ended. There was always a suggestion, an offering, a how-about-this-way, a—

“I have to go. Thanks, though.”

“All right.”

“See you tonight.”

Mels kissed the soft cheek that was presented, and left through the front door in a hurry. Outside, the air was fresh and lovely, the sun bright enough to promise a warm lunch hour.

Getting in the back of the cab, she said, “CCJ offices on Trade.”

“You got it.”

Heading into town, the taxi had shock absorbers to rival cement blocks, and all the seat padding of a hardwood floor, but she didn’t care about the rough ride. Too much chaos in her brain to worry about her butt or her molars.

That man from the night before remained with her, sure as if he were sitting beside her.

It had been like that all night long.

Letting her head fall back, she closed her eyes and replayed the accident, double-checking, triple-checking that there was nothing she could have done to avoid hitting him. And then she got tied up in other things, like the way he had lain so still and watchful in that hospital bed.

Even injured, gravely so in some places, he’d still come across like…a predator.

A powerful male animal, wounded—

Okay, now she was really losing it. And maybe she needed to look closer at her dating life—which was nonexistent….

Too bad she couldn’t shake the conviction that he’d been strangely hypnotic, and wasn’t that tacky. What she should be concerned with was his health and well-being, and how likely he was to try to sue her for what little she had.

Instead, she lingered on the raspy sound of his voice, and the way he’d stared at her, as if every small thing about her had been a source of fascination and importance…

He’d been hurt a while ago, she thought. The scars at the side of his eye had healed up over time.

What had happened to him? What was his name…?

As she got mired in the land of Questions With No Answers, the taxi driver did his job with no muss, no fuss. Sixteen dollars, eighteen minutes, and a sore tailbone later, she was walking into the newsroom.

The place was already noisy, with people talking and rushing around, and the chaos calmed her nerves—in the same way that taking a yoga class made her jumpy.

Sitting down at her desk, she checked her voicemail, signed into her e-mail, and grabbed the mug she had been using since she’d inherited the desk a little over a year and half ago. Heading over to the communal kitchen, she had one of six coffeepots to choose from: None of them were decaf; three of them were just plain old Maxwell House; and the others were that stinky hazelnut crap or that femme-y macchiato-whatever-the-hell it was called.

Big whatever on the latter. If she wanted a damn caramel sundae, she’d get one for lunch. That stuff did not belong in a coffee mug.

As she poured her basic black, she thought about the mug’s true owner, Beth Randall, the reporter who’d sat in that cubicle for…well, it must havc been just over two years. One afternoon, the woman had left and never come back. Mels had been sorry about the disappearance—not that she’d known her colleague all that well—and felt badly to finally get a dedicated spot to sit in under those circumstances.

She’d kept the mug for no particular reason. But now, as she took a sip from it, she realized it was in the hopes that the woman returned. Or at the very least, was okay.

Looked like she was surrounded by missing people.

Or at least it felt that way this morning. Especially when she thought of the man from the night before—the one who she was never going to see again, and couldn’t seem to forget.

This was not his house.

As the taxi pulled over in front of a ranch in a modest neighborhood, Matthias knew he didn’t live under its roof. Hadn’t. Wouldn’t.

“You gettin’ out or not?”

Matthias met the driver’s eyes in the rearview. “Gimme a minute.”

“Meter’s running.”

Nodding, he got out and relied on his cane as he went up the front walk, swinging his bad leg in a wide circle so he didn’t have to bend his knee. Things were hardly Home Sweet Home: There was a branch down in the scrubby hedge that ran under the bay window. The lawn was scruffy. Weeds had sprouted in the gutters, reaching for the sun so high above.

The front door was locked, so he cupped his hands and looked into the windows on either side. Dust bunnies. Mismatched furniture. Sagging drapes.

There was a cheapo tin mailbox screwed into the bricks, and he opened the top. Circulars. A coupon book addressed to “Occupant.” No bills, credit card applications, letters. The only other piece of mail was an AARP magazine that had the same name as that of the driver’s license he’d been given.