Page 146 of Shattered Veil

I chuckled, pulling her in for a single kiss, and just as she hummed against me, I mockingly whispered, “Succubus.”

“Does that mean yes?” she cooed.

“You’re trying to fool me into you fucking me all day?”

“Mhm.”

Her giggle was quieted with my mouth, and it took all the power I had in me to note, “Unfortunately, I don’t get paid to be in bed with you.”

Cassie groaned loudly. Her frown returned, and I nipped at her lip.

“You’ll call me?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Right when you get in the car?”

Her palpable nervousness squeezed at my chest, and I touched my forehead to hers. “Right when I get in the car.”

“Okay.”

Our lips brushed together one last time, and I muttered, “Love you.”

She sighed. “Love you, too.”

I released her, happily grabbing my coffee from the counter, and called over my shoulder to her, “Enjoy being willfully unemployed while you can!”

Cassie gave me a hefty eye roll and a playful, “Uh huh,” and I strolled out the door.

The last time I had been in my vehicle was when I went to retrieve it from the side of the highway the day before. Doing so had made my all-too-usual nervousness flare in my chest, and it was easily equated to someone staring over my shoulder. Or, perhaps, the feeling of being a child and running from a nonexistent monster—one that only lurked in the darkness after a light switch was flipped off, and you sprinted toward any remaining illumination.

Now was no different, but I pushed through, and there was no monster waiting to snatch me. I secured myself in the driver’s seat, pulled out onto the road, and called Cassie as she had requested.

We spoke of her job options—of which, I heavily favored the salacious suggestion that she could be my own private, live-in dancer, though we both knew that option was one made in jest. She didn’t care for the thought of returning to Gas Lamp or any other club, and neither did I—and I swear that wasn’t due to my jealous tendencies. As much as it seemed that the threat in Salem and the surrounding area might end with Officer Dowler’s arrest, we truly didn’t know that for certain…so Cassie felt it too nerve-wracking to go back to dancing, no matter the location.

She read off job listings for accountants nearby, discouraged from the pay rate or necessity to gain further education in order to receive a decent salary. By the time I arrived in the parking lot at work, we were debating her monthly mortgage payment, the reality of how long her savings would last her during a job search, and whether or not she should expand her education. The mention of upcoming change had laced excitement in her voice, and as I walked into the office, the upturn of my lips remained until I reached my desk and Shawn nearly screeched:

“What the fuck?!”

The volume of his voice made me jump in place. Just having reached for my glasses in my work bag, I fumbled them by the stems, and they fell to the floor.

I clutched at my chest. “Jesus, Shawn!”

“Brooks!” Larry, who sat just two cubicles down from us and was approximately twenty years our senior, snapped from his seat, “Language!”

Picking up my glasses from the carpet, I began to polish the lenses with a pinch of the fabric on my shirt while Shawn stammered, “I—um—sorry, Larry.”

Frames on my face, I glanced over to see his vibrant eyes wide as they trailed over my cuts and bruises. Not long enough to have begun to fade from the nasty purple to a more acceptable green, they remained marring my skin—dark and obvious—and Shawn looked no less than aghast. Stood at his full height in the entrance to his cubicle, his sweater-clad arms hung loose at his sides while he looked at me expectantly.

I sighed heavily. “Hi.”

“Hi?” Shawn had begun to raise his voice in incredulity, but he managed to stop himself, glancing up and down the hallway of cubicles between us before he bustled over to mine. Hands on his hips as he stopped no further than a foot in front of me, he challenged with his decibel at a low murmur, “What happened?!”

“Mugged,” I succinctly told the lie that I had been planning to. “I was mugged. Not exactly proud of it.”

“God…I—how—you’re not exactly a small guy, Jay, how does that even happen?”

“People have their means,” I remarked, “I don’t exactly want to do a play-by-play here.”

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