S H A D E S

Turning the Tables

The first bracing gulp of fresh air slapped me sober and I was grateful. Grateful to be free of that throat strangling toxicity that was Jim Verraster and his hateful implications. For him to tie everything I was, and accomplished, into a sordid little knot was a low I couldn't swallow. F-ck him, and anyone like him. Hell, f-ck men in general--the straight ones, at least.

How simple life would be, how calm and peaceful the world, if only we could rid it of sex-crazed, d!ck-swinging, Neolithic men? Arms hugged around me for warmth, I turned just as he rolled through the doors.

"Great," I muttered, and flagged out my arm for a cab.

"Where are you going?" Tristan asked, catching my arm before I could disappear into backseat. The seriousness of his voice was etched in the lines of his mouth, eyes dark and fixed on me. My pulse scrambled in the heat of his gaze, so I covered it with the heat of my temper.

"Home," I spat, all venom, vodka and fury, heedless of the passing bodies on the street.

Tristan moved in closer, calm and hushed which only heightened my irritation. "Not now," he said. "Not like this. Do you want the Board asking questions?"

"F-ck you." I wrenched my arm free. "I don't care. I'm going home. Alone."

Shaking his head, he waved the cab aside and it pulled from the curb, sailing out into the busy street. Another fucking man, I seethed. To hell with the little woman and what she wanted. A second later and a black town car pulled up in its stead.

"Mr. Shade. Ms. Pierce." Harold, Tristan's driver, stepped out, tipped his hat.

"Home," Shade ordered, opening the door and nudging me inside. When I reached for the handle to shut it behind me, Tristan whacked my hand away and slid into the backseat.

"I'm not having you stay over," I warned, crossing my arms. Tristan shifted his eyes to me, elbow propped against the door, and said nothing.

Good, I thought. I wasn't in the mood to argue. Not now. Fighting would only escalate my ire and already I could feel the weight of furious tears building behind my eyes. I wasn't going to cry, I told myself. Not now. Not in front of him.

I was so busy concentrating on that fact, on keeping myself together, that I didn't even notice where we were until Tristan helped me out of the car and I found myself face to face with Neil, the porter.

"No," I shot an elbow into his side. "F-cking hell, Shade. Take me home."

"This is home," he said, gathering me against him, locking my arm between us. I could have fought him, if I wanted to. I could have yelled and screamed and made a bloody production right in the middle of Park Avenue's lobby. But I held my tongue, bit down on it so hard I could almost taste the salty tang of blood.

I held in my venom, my rage, until the elevator banked and we stepped out into his apartment, then, pushing from him, I spun and set it free. My hand caught him clean across his cheek and sent a flame jolt up my arm and straight into my soul. My palm sang, the skin tingling and for a second I smiled. Maybe there was something to this pain thing after all.

Satisfied I'd made my point, I moved to leave but he sidestepped and blockaded my path. So I raised my hand again when a look from him stopped me cold.

"Hit me again," he warned, "and I'll hit you back."

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I seethed. "Or maybe I should just fall to my knees, huh? Whip out that c-ck and blow your mind, right here?" My fingers dug into the silk of his shirt, curled like claws.