Kicking It(31)

His lips tingled, and he felt a stirring of power lingering just beneath his skin.

When she was done shifting the ground under his feet, she let go and took a small step back. “I always repay my debts, Brighton. Call me if you need me.”

“I don’t have your number. It took me weeks to find you last time. If you hadn’t responded to my online messages—”

She pressed one slender finger against his lips. “Call my name. I’ll hear you. You’re not the only one with special talents, you know.”

That’s when he realized what she’d done. That kiss had left him with a gift—the ability to summon her.

Marcus was blown away by her trust. “You sure you want to give me such power?”

She moved past him, heading toward the door. “Too late now. Just give me a few weeks for the rib to heal before you run into trouble again, okay?”

She left the RV, and it suddenly felt empty. Too empty.

He hurried down the steps, around to the back side of the RV, where she’d parked her motorcycle out of sight, and held out his hand. “Give it back.”

A look of complete, shocked innocence covered her lovely face. “What?”

“The belt you stole.”

She gave him a slow, sexy smile as she fished the belt out from the back of her tight bodice. “You’re catching on, Brighton. There might be hope for you yet.”





THE GIRL WITH NO NAME





BY CHRIS MARIE GREEN





1



I woke up in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, and it took me only a few seconds to realize I had no idea where I was.

Or who I was.

Heart thumping, mind skittering, I surveyed the closed, heavy curtains and the blazing lights that I had evidently left on. Round me, paintings of trumpets, saxophones, and clarinets hung on the walls. I kept anticipating the numbness of sleep to wear off, yet . . .

No. So I closed my eyes again, giving myself more time. When that didn’t work, my pulse pounded faster, like feet running over an endless street. I sat up in the bed, covers swaddling me to the hips.

Brain. Surely my brain would kick in any moment.

Yet my head was still a near blank while I inspected myself: fully dressed, in a tight thin-strapped black tank with a skull and crossbones on the front, cutoff jeans shorts. But then I focused on my legs. They felt heavy, encased, as if . . .

I whipped off the covers, then gaped.

A pair of boots—and not any sort of boots I’d seen before now. (As if I even faintly knew what I had seen before now.) These boots came to just below my knees, and they appeared to be made of . . . vines. A dark green mass of attractively entwined strands, wrapping round calves and feet, as if I had just now stepped off nature’s catwalk.

“What the bloody hell?” I whispered, still staring. Was I in an old episode of The Twilight Zone? Wait—how did I know what The Twilight Zone was when I couldn’t even remember anything about how I had gotten here or where I was or what I was doing in these tarty, out-of-the-ordinary boots?

Slowly, one fact caught up to me: I had spoken with an English accent. Somewhat posh. A touch salty, perhaps. And if I knew it was an English accent, that meant I could at least remember something about my world. I knew things, but not important things . . .

I rolled out of the bed. The sheets were clean, tidy. Clearly, I was not a restless sleeper. In fact, it was as if I had slept the slumber of the dead.

For some odd reason, that thought weighed on me as I rushed to the window, yanking aside the curtain to discover that I was on the second floor of a house, dusk pressing down on a view of a street decorated with wrought-iron galleries. Below them, people meandered down sidewalks, some wearing flashy beads under the flickering lanterns and carrying plastic cups. A fence enclosed the yard, and across the way a corner market was boarded up.

I sprang to a nearby desk, grasping at a folder, the golden lettering on the front confirming my growing suspicions.

Hanover House. New Orleans.

I allowed myself to sigh. Here was my explanation, right before me. Today I had most likely gotten rat-arsed on the Hand Grenades and Hurricanes I knew they sold on Bourbon Street, and had stumbled back to my bed-and-breakfast room. I was on holiday, out for a good time. Liquor was the reason I didn’t remember a few pertinent details. Evidently I had destroyed key brain cells.

But then, why didn’t I feel as groggy or booze-bitten as I should have?

Instead of asking myself again the reason I could remember big-picture items such as how it felt to be hungover, I stumbled away from the desk, turning round, looking for a suitcase or a bag or anything else I had brought with me. Even a smartphone that could fill in my blanks. I searched drawers, under the bed, everywhere.