What’s New Pussycat(34)

She wanted to lean into his hand, but she didn’t deserve his compassion. Instead, she was going to stall him. No compassion required. “Can we talk about it later?” she asked in hushed tones, hiding her eyes for fear he’d see her guilt written in them.

Nat gripped Martine’s hand and nudged Derrick with her knee. “Say no more. Just warm up and rest. You can talk later.”

Jerry brought her a steaming cup of tea, handing it to her and smiling. “I hope you feel better soon, Martine. Maybe we could take a walk when you do. I’ll show you around the woods. I know them well.”

Using all of the energy she had left, Martine leaned forward and grabbed Jerry’s hand, squeezing it hard, letting him know she appreciated him. “Thank you for helping me, Jerry. I’d love to take a walk with you sometime.”

Derrick shook Jerry’s hand, and for some reason that small gesture made her heart skip a beat. Jerry was right. Derrick was a decent man, and each moment she spent around him, she liked him more.

“Martine?” he said, running a finger down her cheek. “Let’s get you to bed. You need to rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Rising, he pulled Nat up with him and gave her a hug. “Appreciate it. You go home and get to bed. You have a job you need to get to tomorrow.”

Nat nodded, her worried eyes looking to Martine before she brought her gaze to Derrick. “Call me if you need anything.” Squeezing Martine’s shoulder, she left, leaving them alone.

Her eyes grew heavier by the second as she warmed from the tea and the fire, and the amazingly welcoming bunch of people she’d somehow managed to horn her way in on.

Derrick took the tea from her, setting it on the table and pulling her toward him. He enveloped her in his arms, this man everyone accused of yelling all the time.

This man she barely knew but found she might have wanted to if circumstances were different.

As he led her to his bedroom, pulled back the covers, sat her on the bed and lifted her legs, her thoughts drifted to how nice it was to have someone to be there for her.

Several someone’s, in fact. It was nice to just let go, to have someone worry for her, even if the worry was only surface concern.

He brought a towel from the bathroom, fluffy and crisply white, and pressed it against her hair, absorbing the water, using gentle hands before he urged her to lie flat on the bed.

Derrick climbed in beside her, tucking her close to him, rubbing her arms as she buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice muffled against his pecs, the scent of him and fresh laundry detergent in her nose.

He cupped her head against him and stroked her hair. “Not now, Martine. Tomorrow. Just sleep.”

Finally warm, her eyes drifted closed, her mind at peace, and her heart felt safe.

That was the nicest thing of all.

* * *

Derrick slid a beer along the polished surface of the bar to one of his regulars, missing his mark by a couple of feet.

“Losin’ your touch there, Derrick,” Morris Polanski cackled, slapping the bar with a wide, wrinkled hand.

He threw a towel over his shoulder and gave one of his favorite patrons a playful scowl. “You don’t drink it anyway, Polanski. I don’t get why the hell you’re always in here darkening my doorstep. Has anyone told you you’re a vampire? You can’t drink beer, buddy, remember? You puke anything that isn’t blood right back up.”

“Good a place as any to get the hell away from the missus and all those dead people. And I like the smell of beer. So sue me.”

Derrick chuckled, shaking his head at the vampire who had no sense of smell at all. Morris Polanski and his family ran a funeral home in the town over, but they lived here in Cedar Glen. Upon finding out about Derrick’s grandparents, and what they’d done, they’d left their clan and migrated here.

Morris was yet another misfit paranormal—one who’d been around almost as long as Derrick could remember. A vampire, in a family of vampires, who had no sense of smell, something considered crucial in the vampire world.

Morris was a steady patron at the bar, paid like any other customer, and often held family events at his favorite local watering hole.

Derrick loved this damn bar—aptly named Bar. Every last shabby corner of it. From the mismatched multi-colored tables to the scuffed barn-wood floor, the short-order cook who was as temperamental as a trained chef, and the jukebox he had to slam a fist against to motivate.

He loved the people who frequented it, and he loved owning his own business.

But today, he didn’t want to be here. Today he wanted to be back at his place, questioning Martine about what happened to her last night, checking and rechecking to be sure she was okay and still on the same plane as the rest of them.