Bad Luck, Baby

6 - Bad Reflections

Consciousness returned with the slow brightening of the rising sun.

First, I was aware that I lay in a large, warm, deliciously comfortable bed; second, that I was not alone in it. An arm encircled my waist, and a pair of long legs tangled with mine.

Half asleep, I smiled and allowed myself to bask in the unexpected comfort of Jamie's embrace.

He rarely showed such physical affection. Typically—when our schedules aligned and when we were both in the mood—he'd down a few beers, fuck me silly (or, less often, let me fuck him), then roll away from me and pass out. I couldn't remember waking up in bed with him before.

It was nice. Strange of him to do so now, seeing as he was dead, but nice.

The thought drifted through my mind like a scrap of burning paper on a mischievous breeze. Then it came to settle like a hot ember on bare skin and, abruptly, I was wide awake.

Rolling over, I found myself staring into a pair of yellow, catlike eyes.

"Good morning, sunshine," Ro said, and grinned.

With a yelp, I scrambled away from him, got tangled in the sheets, and fell off the side of the bed.

He leaned over and frowned down at me, his long hair falling forward in a dark cascade.

"Is that not the proper morning salutation among humans?" he asked.

I scowled. "Among serial killers, maybe. I thought you said you'd stay in cat form."

After convincing me to sleep in my dead father's bed (having applied his miraculous cleaning skills once again) Ro had retaken his feline shape, assuring me he'd be perfectly comfortable curled up on the cushion of an upholstered chair.

"I got cold," he said easily. "There was plenty of room to share."

"Says you," I grumbled, getting to my feet.

Ro sat cross-legged on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin in his hands. He wore nothing but a pair of black underwear. Slipping the leash of my self-control, my eyes roamed his lean, toned form, from his trim torso to his muscled shoulders and gracefully long limbs.

Catching myself, I turned swiftly away, struck through with a sharp pang of guilt.

A moment ago, I'd thought he was Jamie. Now I recalled, in full and grisly detail, that Jamie was dead, and that it was my fault.

If I'd just played Mr. Walters's game, he wouldn't have fired me. If he hadn't fired me, I wouldn't have come home early and interrupted Jamie's fun with Mr. Knots. If I hadn't interrupted him, I wouldn't have stormed out of our apartment and run away. And if I hadn't run away, I'd have been there when whoever—or whatever—had shown up to kill me, and...

"He'd still be dead," Ro said, surprising me.

"What?"

"You're blaming yourself for your not-cheating not-boyfriend's death, aren't you? I can see it on your face. You're surprisingly easy to read."

I frowned. "But—"

"But nothing. If you'd been there, the only difference is that you'd be dead, too. So, you see, what seemed like a lot of bad luck was actually good luck in the end. For you, obviously. Not for the other fellow. But that's fate for you. Your alarm doesn't go off, and you miss an important appointment; little do you know, you also miss getting turned to road paté by the bus that would have run you over if you'd been on time. That's why the wise take such turns in stride—don't get upset over the little things."