Heat Stroke

I thought of it in my head, a kind of smoky soft gray, gentle as doves. “Now?”

“Better. Focus on that color. Hold it there.” His hands moved out of my hair and caressed my face, thumbs gently skimming my cheekbones. “Remember what I said.”

“Eyes down. Mouth shut,” I confirmed.

His lips quirked. “Why am I not convinced?”

“Because you know me.” I put my hands over his, felt the burning power coursing under his skin. Light like blood, pumping inside him. “Seriously. How bad is this?”

He pulled in a deep breath and let go of me. “Just do what I told you, and we’ll both be fine.”

There was a door at the end of the hall marked with a red exit sign. David stiff-armed it without slowing down, and I followed him into a sudden feeling of pressure, motion, intense cold, disorientation…

… and somebody’s house. A nice house, actually, lots of wood, high ceilings, a kind of cabinish feel while still maintaining that urban cachet. Big, soaring raw stone fireplace, complete with wrought iron tools and a big stack of logs that looked fresh-chopped. The living room—which was where we were—was spacious, comfortable, full of overstuffed furniture in masculine shades. Paintings on the walls—astronomy, stars, planets. I caught my breath and braced myself with my hand on the back of a sofa.

The place smelled of a strange combination of gun oil and aftershave, a peculiarly masculine kind of odor that comforted me in places that I hadn’t known were nervous.

There was a clatter from what must have been the kitchen, down the hall and to the left, and a man came around the corner carrying three dark brown bottles of Killian’s Irish Red.

“Hey,” he said, and tossed one to David. David caught it out of the air. “Sit your ass down. We’re go

I stared. Couldn’t quite help it. I mean, with all the buildup, I’d been expecting a three-headed Satan breathing fire and picking his teeth with a human rib. This was just—a guy. Tall, lean, with a built-in grace that reminded me of animals that run for a living. He looked older—forty-five? fifty? — and his short hair was a kind of sandy brown, thickly salted with gray. An angular face, one that bypassed handsome for something far more interesting. Lived-in. Strong. Utterly self-assured.

He was wearing a black T-shirt, khaki cargo pants, some kind of efficient-looking boots, maybe Doc Martens. He settled himself down in a sprawl on the couch, all arms and legs and attitude, and finally held out the other beer toward me. I leaned forward to take it, and his eyes flicked over and fixed on mine.

I froze. Just… whited out. I thought nothing, felt nothing until the cold sweating bottle slapped my palm, and then I looked down and focused on it, blinking. I couldn’t have said what color his eyes were, but they were incredible. Dark. Intense. And very dangerous.

David had eased himself down to a sitting position on the edge of a brown sofa with worn spots on the arms. He held the beer between his palms, rolling the bottle slowly back and forth, and now he glanced at me and I saw something unsettling in his eyes.

It might have been fear.

“Jonathan,” David said.

“David. Glad we’re still on a first-name basis,” Jonathan replied, with a half-inch nod that conveyed nothing. His eyes flicked to me, then away, so brief you couldn’t even call it a look. “You. Sit your ass down.”

I did, feeling gawkish and stupid and so much like an intruder it stung. There was something between these two; it was so powerful that it warped space around them, tingled in my skin like electric shock. Love? Hate? Bitterness? Maybe it was all that. Certainly it wasn’t a passing acquaintance. It had the ancient feel of something long-term and deep as the ocean.

Jonathan took a swig of beer. “Well, she’s pretty,” he said to David, and jerked his head at me. “You always did like the dark-haired ones.”

David raised his eyebrows. “Is this the part where you try to embarrass me in front of her?”

“Enjoy it. This is as fun as it’s likely to get.”

The fire popped like a gunshot. Neither of them flinched. They were locked into a staring contest. David finally said, “Okay. I’m only here as a courtesy. Tell me what was important enough to send Rahel around after me like your personal sheepdog.”

“Well, you don’t call, you don’t write… and you’re offended on Rahel’s behalf? That’s new.” Jonathan waved it away, tipped his bottle again and swallowed. “You know what’s so important. I’ve never seen you do anything so… incredibly, brainlessly stupid. And hey. That’s saying something.”

God, it all looked so real. I knew that the room around me had to be stage dressing, built out of Jonathan’s power, but it felt utterly right. The pop and shimmer of the fire in the hearth. The woodsy smell of smoke and aftershave. The texture of the slightly rough couch fabric under my fingers. There was even frost on the windowpanes, and a localized chill from that direction—it was winter here, deep winter. I wondered if that was any indication of his mood.

David said lightly, “You’re keeping score of my screwups? Must get boring for you down here, all by yourself. But then that’s your choice, isn’t it? Being alone.”

A flash came and went fast in Jonathan’s eyes, and sparked something in response in David. Silent communication, and very powerful. Ah. Whatever was between these two wasn’t hate. It looked a lot— uncomfortably—like love.

Jonathan let that flash of emotion fade into a still, empty silence, set his beer aside, and leaned forward with his hands clasped. “Don’t try to change the subject. What you did wasn’t just selfish, it was nuts. You put us in danger.” Jonathan’s eyes were changing color, and I looked down, fast. I knew, without anybody telling me, that it wasn’t safe to be facing that particular stare. His voice went quiet and iron hard. “Do I really have to tell you how serious this is?”

“No,” David said. “Let’s just get on with it.”

“You want to at least explain to me why you did it?”

David’s voice was warm, intimate, almost compassionate. “Jonathan, I don’t have to explain a damn thing. You already know everything I’m going to say. You always have.”

“Not true. You were always full of surprises.”

“Good ones, occasionally. Maybe this will be one of them.”

“Oh, you’d so better hope.”

It was a very heavy silence that followed. I listened to the crack and pop of logs on the fire and focused on the smooth pebbled leather of my skirt. Eyes down. Mouth shut. I could do that.

Jonathan sighed and stirred. “You go

“No. You know I hate the stuff.” David held out the untouched bottle.

Jonathan leaned across the empty space and took it. “How about you, Snow White? You drinking?” He was talking to me. I’d almost forgotten about the sweating cold Killian’s in my hand, except as something to hold on to; I took a fast, mute sip and glanced up.

Mistake. He was staring at me. I fell into those eyes, like Jonathan had his own dark gravity, and for a few seconds I knew him. Old. Wise. Limitlessly powerful. Fu

But the door swung both ways.

I knew him.

He knew me, too.

There was nothing, nothing he didn’t touch inside of me, and yet it wasn’t like the raping intrusion you’d think. I had the sense of compassion, of amusement, and a kind of strange gentleness as he gathered me in, learned me, lived in me.

“Jonathan! Dammit, stop!” I heard David’s shout, but it was too far, too far to travel to answer. Was it possible to be consumed like that, and still be whole? I felt like I was unraveling, spreading thi