Aren’t you a liar and a con artist? Way to rock that double standard.
But she wasn’t an addict. She’d never popped a pill or smoked so much as a cigarette. She’d never stuck a needle in her arm or snorted a damned thing up her nose. And it wasn’t like she’d never had the opportunity. Even alcohol was a touchy subject with Claire. She rarely drank and most of the time she used alcohol as a distraction, liquoring up her mark while she pretended to imbibe. She never wanted anything less than a clear and level head at all times.
And somehow, in the course of one brief, amazing encounter, this man—this stranger—had unraveled her. How?
The cab dropped her off at the corner of Miller just as the bus pulled up to the stop. Claire tossed the driver five bucks and hoofed it across the street, barely making the bus before it pulled back out into traffic. She made her way to the back of the bus—great, not a single seat—and grabbed onto the metal bar in the aisle to keep from falling on her ass as they negotiated the late-night traffic. L.A. really was a city that never slept. Not to mention a city of a million cars. Did no one care about the environment?
Oh, who was she kidding? If she could afford a car, she’d be cruising all over the city just like everyone else. In her defense, though, she’d totally spring for a hybrid. Claire’s stomach soured as the scenery transformed from the fancy storefronts and luxurious clubs and became the run-down, neglected, poor part of L.A. that she knew but certainly didn’t love.
As though a switch had been flipped inside of her, Claire’s chest swelled with a surge of strong emotion. A sense of elation that stole her breath and blurred her vision. Michael. The uncanny instinct that never steered her wrong told Claire in an instant that he was close. How? Why? But most important, where? She leaned to her left over the seat and two very annoyed passengers and caught sight of a sleek jet-black sports car in the opposite lane of traffic. There. She caught sight of Michael seated in the passenger seat and their eyes met for the briefest moment. The car drove past the bus and Claire shifted, pressing her palms flat against the back window. Michael turned in his seat, his gaze locked on hers. In a flash of red brake lights, the car skidded, the squealing of tires followed up by angry horns as the vehicle came to a dead stop right in the middle of the street.
Holy shit. What in the hell was going on?
The bus continued on its track, the driver oblivious to Claire’s distress. Michael was in that car. She’d felt his presence as surely as if he were standing beside her. A shout built up in her chest, the urge to order the driver to let her off too strong to resist. He was there, just a football field’s length away … two lengths … three.
“Stop!” The word burst, unbidden, from Claire’s lips. “Stop the bus!”
All eyes turned to Claire, but she didn’t care. She needed to get off the bus. She couldn’t explain it, but the urge was beyond reason. His need stretched out in the space between them, reaching deep into her soul and latching on with sharp teeth that wouldn’t let go.
“Is this an emergency?” the driver asked over the intercom. “I’ll have to call nine-one-one if this is an emergency.”
“Um, no!” Claire called back. She definitely didn’t need a visit from L.A.P.D. A rule of the hustle that needed no explanation: Avoid the cops at all costs.#p#分页标题#e#
“Then you can get off at the next stop,” the bus driver replied. “Because I’ve got a schedule to keep.”
* * *
“Stop! Stop the car. Now, Ronan!”
At first, Michael thought he’d imagined it. How could it be possible to feel her so strongly amidst a steady stream of traffic and bodies? But her presence burned in his soul, an inextinguishable fire that seared him from the inside out moments before he’d caught sight of her through the bus window. Michael’s fangs ripped down from his gums, tearing the flesh with the force. He cradled his head in his palms as the Collective assaulted him, the memories awakening centuries-old instinct that he was helpless to fight.
Mine.
Without question, Ronan slammed on the brakes, sending the car fishtailing on the city street, the low-profile tires of his Aston Martin screaming. Around them, motorists honked their horns, leaning out of their windows to shout obscenities. Michael gritted his teeth against the press of the Collective, his fangs delivering two sets of punctures to his lower lip from the strain. Blood welled inside of his mouth, the sweet tang combined with his mate’s proximity igniting his thirst.
The distance between them grew, stretching out within him until every tendon pulled taut, each muscle trembling under the strain. Michael shoved open the door, the metal groaning from the force. Ronan grabbed on to Michael’s collar to keep him inside and he turned to his friend, fangs bared as a feral snarl tore from his throat.