The Cupid Touch

The Cupid Touch Chapter 11 - Syncing

** A Short chapter today (I can't quite finish it tonight!!) and then a longer one tomorrow :) Sorry for the delay, but I have finished the week from hell... **

Ironically, given my own bizarre secret, I didn't quite believe him. Though realistically, it was a lot to do with him telling me something that was just like me, only not. It was a little bit like talking to my frankly wonderful stepdad, Fernando. He is amazing in every way, and works harder than anyone I know, but he always seems to have had the same illness as you the week before, only worse. Which always stops you from complaining about it.  

I found myself giving Joe-Moe a Look. 

"Are you copying me?" I asked. 

"Seriously?" He shook his head with a slight smile. "You, of all people, don't believe me?"

"I do!" I protested. "I just - it's a bit strange is all. That you happen to have a thing that's just the same as my thing."

"It isn't the same," he said. 

"Well... Can you show me?"

He huffed some air out, and he was close enough that it was warm on my mouth and I breathed some of it in. It was so sexy, I almost forgot what we were talking about. 

"I can't really. I mean - let's drive. I can maybe show you... if someone deserves it."

He stepped away, and I couldn't help a feeling of disappointment. 

Get used to it, Morgan, the tough part of me said. 

I let myself into the passenger side again, trying to puzzle him out. I felt like this was a joke, somehow. Maybe he thought he could convince me that what I did wasn't real. Which wasn't so very unreasonable. I'd tried to convince myself enough times.

Or maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he actually destroyed people. 

I suddenly found myself wanting to know, quite badly, what that meant. And for the first time, looking at that muscular body, the hard jaw, and the slightly dangerous smile he gave me again, I wondered if there was something a little... wrong. 

And then he reached over and gave me such a tender, gentle kiss that all of the worry melted right away. I relaxed into him with a sigh. 

You're an idiot, Morgan, that same voice said. 

Yes, the weak half of me answered, revelling in the warmth of his kiss. And isn't it more fun being an idiot?

We were over the river and passing North-West through Cambridge before something happened to wake me up again. It was a stupid, simple thing: a motorist behaving like an idiot. He was a middle-aged guy in a big, new-looking cream Dodge. One minute, he was behind us, and the next, he'd shot past on the inside lane to our right and cut in to the point where Joe-Moe had to brake sharply.

"Jeez," I hissed, grabbing at the dash. 

I waited for Joe-Moe to lean on the horn, but instead, he seemed to have grown coldly focused as the driver weaved again and undertook another driver. 

And then I felt something. It was a very, very different feeling to the one I had when two people were about to fall in love. It was a colder feeling and a hotter one at once. It felt like the part in a film where you know something terrible is about to happen, and you can't stop it. 

"Him," Joe-Moe said quietly, slowing down to leave a gap between us and the cars in front.

There was a brief squeal of brakes, a crunch, and Joe-Moe cruised into the inside lane to go past what was now a small pile-up with the guy in the Dodge in the middle of it. As we were passing, the car in front suddenly lit up with flashing blue and red lights, and I almost laughed. He'd driven into an unmarked squad car.

But then I thought about the people in the car behind, too. 

"Do you think any of them got hurt?" I asked, craning to look behind me as Joe-Moe powered his own old, unimpressive car away. 

"Low speed impact, I don't think so," Joe-Moe said, and then added, quietly, "I hope not."

It hit me, then, that this was what he had done; this was what he could do. He was revenge, pure and simple. The guy had got what he deserved, as far as Joe-Moe thought. But only at a cost to others. 

And I wondered how often Joe-Moe thought someone deserved it. 

Just like that, I was no longer enjoying this drive. I wanted it to stop, so I could get out and away from him. 

"Joe-Moe," I said, hearing the shake in my voice. 

He gave a strange, bitter smile. "I know," he said quietly. "You want out, right? Because you think sooner or later, you'll be the one pissing me off. Or someone you know, right?"

"Yes," I whispered. 

"You can get out, if you want," he said, slowing the car. "But will you listen to me first? Just for a while?"

If you want an illustration of mixed-up, the way I felt right then was pretty comprehensive. I could hear the hurt in his voice, and I wanted to comfort him. I could hear the warning sounds of the last few days turn into an urgent, blaring siren in my head. I wanted to ask him question after question about this power of his; find out when and how it had begun, and what kind of a person it made him. I wanted to shout at him for drawing me in this far when I'd told him it was a bad idea. And I wanted him to kiss me again, and again, and again.

I gave in all over again. 

"All right," I said. "Talk."