off him with a sloppy palm. “Stop it…”
“You sure?”
Oh, God, he was even hotter on the outside, even colder on the inside. He had to stop this…because he didn't want to know the message that was coming to him. He didn't want the vision, the communication, the look-see into the future, but he was the telegraph who was powerless to deny receipt of the letters sent to him.
First the man in the elevator, then the two outside…now this.
He'd exorcised the dark side from himself years ago. Why was it back now?
The redhead rubbed herself against his arm and leaned into his ear. “Let me take care of you—”
“Gina, give it a rest, would you?”
Vin's eyes moved toward Marie-Terese's voice and he opened his mouth to try and speak. Nothing came out. Worse, as he stared at her, she became a vortex into which his sight was sucked, everything but her going blurry. He braced himself for what was coming next—and sure enough, the trembling started at his feet, just as the fog had, and moved up his body, taking over his knees and his stomach and his shoulders…
“Whatever, I don't need to beg,” Gina said as she headed for the door. “Have fun with him—he looks too strung out to party anyway.”
“Vin?” Marie-Terese came over. “Vin, can you hear me? Are you all right—”
The words bubbled up out of him, the voice not his own, the possession overcoming everything such that he knew not what he spoke because the message was not for him, but for the one he was addressing.
His ears heard only nonsense: “
“Who.”
Vin's voice was deep and dark and senseless to him, even as he tried to hear the syllables correctly, tried to unscramble in his head what he was telling her: This was the very worst part of his curse—he could do nothing to affect the future, because he didn't know what he foretold.
Marie-Terese backed away from him until she smacked against the door, her face pale and her eyes popping wide. With shaking hands, she fumbled to open the thing and then burst out of the locker room, desperate to get away from him.
Her absence was what brought Vin back to reality, snapping the hold that had been clamped onto him, breaking the strings that had turned him into the puppet of…he didn't know what. He'd never known what. From the very first time he'd been taken over, he'd been clueless as to what it was or what he spoke of or why, of all the people on the planet, it had to be him who chose to bear this terrible burden.
Good God, what was he going to do? He couldn't function in his business or his life with intrusions like this. And he didn't want to go back to his years as a young kid when people thought he was crazy.
Besides, this shouldn't be happening. He'd taken care of this.
Planting his palms onto his knees, his let his head sag on his shoulders, his breathing shallow, his locked elbows all that held him upright. That was how Jim found him.
“Vin? What's doing, big man? You got a concussion?”
If only that were the case. He'd so choose a brain hemorrhage over the speaking-in-tongues thing. Vin forced his eyes over to the other man. And because his mouth evidently wasn't through with its independent streak, he heard himself say, “Do you believe in demons, Jim?” The guy frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Demons…”
There was a long pause; then Jim said, “How 'bout we get you home? You don't look right.”
Jim's pointed pass on the question was a reminder of the polite way people dealt with the freaky in life. There were a lot of other reactions, though, from Marie-Terese's taking off at a dead run to outright cruelty—which was what he'd gotten as a kid.
And Jim was right. Home was exactly where he needed to go, but damned if he didn't want to find Marie- Terese and tell her…what? That between the ages of eleven and seventeen he'd had these “spells” happen to him regularly? That they'd made him lose friends and gotten him labeled a freak and forced him to learn how to fight? That he was sorry she'd gotten scared twice tonight?
More to the point, that she needed to take whatever he'd spoken as the gospel truth and protect herself? Because he was never wrong. Fuck him to hell and back…but whatever he said always happened.
Which was how he knew it was never good news. Later, someone on the periphery, or maybe the person him- or herself, would tell him what he'd said and what it meant. God, how the aftermath of the truth had horrified him. When he'd been young and had scared easier, he would go to his bedroom and shut the door and huddle under the covers, a shaky mess.
Just like he saw dead people, he foretold the future. The bad, bloody, destructive kind.
So what kind of trouble was Marie-Terese in?
“Come on, Vin. Let's go.”
Vin looked toward the locker room door. Probably the kindest thing he could do for the woman was leave quietly—all that explaining was only going to draw her in deeper and frighten her more. But that wasn't what was going to help her avoid whatever trouble was coming her way.
“Vin…let me take you out of here.”
“She's in danger.”
“Vin, look at me.” The guy pointed to both of his own eyes.
Damn it, this fuzzy aftermath, with the disorientation and confusion, with his fear about what he'd said and his feeling out of control—shit, even the WTF expression on Jim's face…he remembered all of this. So many times…Vin had been through this so many times, and he hated it.
“You're right,” he said, trying to let it all go. “You're absolutely right.”
He could always come back and talk to her later, when things weren't so fresh. Like tomorrow. He'd come back tomorrow as soon as the club opened. It was the best he could do.
Getting off the stool carefully, he went over to where she'd left his business card on the makeup counter. Taking his pen out, he wrote two words on the back and then looked at all the bags. He knew exactly which duffel was hers. Out of the pink-and-purple Ed Hardys and the Gucci and the two identical Harajuku Lovers…there was a plain black one with not so much as a Nike logo on it.
After tucking the card inside that one, he strode for the door, his shoulders aching, his right hand starting to pound, his ribs sending him a sharp shooter every time he took a breath. The real shitkicker, though, was the headache between his temples that had nothing to do with the fight. He always had one after…whatever the hell that was.
Out in the hall, he looked both ways and saw no sign of Marie-Terese.
For a moment, the compulsion to find her struck strong and hot, but when Jim took his arm, he put his faith in the other man's rationality and allowed himself to be led over to the rear exit of the club. “Wait here.”
Jim knocked on the manager's door, and when the guy came out, there was another round of thank-yous and then Vin found himself breathing cold, clear air. Christ…what a night.
Chapter 15
In the club's parking lot, Vin walked through rows of cars, but he wasn't tracking much…at least not until he caught sight of the guy with the mustache and glasses who'd witnessed the fight from the head of the corridor. Fortunately, as they all passed each other, the man ducked his eyes like he didn't want any trouble and continued pulling on his parka, like he'd gone out to a car to get the thing.
When they got to the truck, Vin slid into the passenger seat and carefully rubbed his aching face.
Letting his head fall back, he despised the spinning, twirling tangle of pain that was making his skull scream. And the headache got even worse as it dawned on him that whereas he was headed back home, Marie-Terese had
