He stepped into his driveway and headed for his back door. The brisk walk to find the shoes she’d lost out on the road had been exactly what he’d needed to unscramble his thoughts and figure some things out. Some things he couldn’t allow himself to forget.
Not getting any SMs from her was intriguing, but it had to be just a random, happenstance occurrence. She was nothing more than a woman he was helping for the night, and he couldn’t let himself forget that. No matter how miraculous it felt to touch her.
He trudged up the porch steps and through the door. The stench hit him before he made it across the threshold. Garlic. And something rotting, decomposing, dead.
Damn that dog and his fetish for decaying carcasses.
Honey lay on the couch, her gaze locked on Little Man—his two-hundred-pound mastiff. An unfortunate underbite left Little Man’s bottom teeth protruding and made him look like Satan’s best beast rather than man’s best friend.
“That’s Little Man. He’s harmless.” He set her shoes in the middle of the kitchen table so Little Man wouldn’t turn them into tail-wagger toys and looked around for the dead animal. “He won’t hurt you. He’s really just an overgrown puppy.”
She sprang off the couch, hurdled the coffee table, crashing into him with full-body impact. He caught her tightly to him, smelling her fear, feeling it in the butterfly tremors shaking her body.
“I should’ve warned you that he might come in.” He inhaled the scent of her hair—cooking oil, nectarines, and sunshine. “He comes and goes through a dog door in the laundry room.”
Her arms slid around him, holding him so tight she could’ve been his second skin.
His heart crashed against his chest wall. His breath tangled up in his lungs. His gut stung with warmth. She settled her head over his heart. Could she feel it pounding? He squeezed his eyes shut, letting the pleasure of holding her entwine with the regret of knowing this was the first time, the last time, the only time he’d ever be able to hold another human being.
Her lips moved against his chest. He heard the stammering sounds of her speaking.
“…dream…”
Dream. He’d caught only one word of what she’d said. Did she think Little Man was a bad dream?
He half dragged, half carried her to the couch and sat. She didn’t let go of him and ended up across his lap, her buttocks pressing into his dick. Blood drained downward and swelled into his groin. Lava-hot sweat erupted from his pores. Shame formed a molten lump in his gut—knowing what she’d been through, he shouldn’t be reacting to her this way. He shifted, moved her down his legs so she couldn’t feel his arousal, and then started blabbing to distract her.
“The worst thing Little Man would ever do is lick you. His tongue is six inches wide, seems two feet long, and he slobbers. A lot.” Lathan bent his head to see her mouth, hoping for a smile, but she stared at her hand, her lips pulled back over her teeth in repulsed horror.
She lifted her hand, her slender bicep straining and bulging as if whatever she clutched in her fist weighed too much to raise.
Her fingers fanned opened.
Lathan stared at the object she held. His heart stalled and his brain shuddered to a stop, leaving him thoughtless for a few picoseconds, before everything turned back on and shifted gears in a direction he sure as hell didn’t want to go.
Chapter 3
An eye. A human eye. In her hand.
Lathan blinked, not quite believing the message his eyes were sending his brain.
“What the… Where’d you get that?” He scented the air and visually scanned his home—only himself, Little Man, and her. No one else had been inside. Nothing was missing or out of place. “Did you leave the house?”
She didn’t answer. She looked and smelled befuddled, dazed, stunned.
“Did you find it outside?”
No answer.
Why did she have it in her hand? What would possess her to touch it, pick it up? His innards lurched and sank down into his gut. Was the owner of the eye still alive? He suspected they weren’t, and that meant there was a body outside. Nearby.
But he would’ve smelled a body. He was just out there.
Her hand fell, the enucleated orb went with it, bouncing once, then rolling, iris over white, to a stop in the crevice between the cushions. Her body wilted; her head thunked against his shoulder.
He grabbed her chin, shaking her face. “Honey. Wake up. I need some answers here.” But she was twelve-rounds-with-the-champ out. Fuck.
He cradled her limp form against him and reached into his pants pocket to get his cell phone. He took a picture of the eye, sent it to Gill, and followed up with a text.
Human eye on my couch.
Gill was gonna hit an eleven on the freak-o-meter. Either that or think Lathan was trying to punk him. A moment later, Gill responded.
A little late for Halloween.
Seriously.
You fucking with me?
No.
What happened?
IDK, but I’m pretty sure where there’s an eye, there’s a body.