The Crystal Warrior
By Maree Anderson
Chapter Sixteen
Chalcey chose a local watering hole. She ordered a couple of tequila shots and watched the minute hand on the clock behind the bar tick inexorably onward. Two choices. Go home and trust that Wulf would show up, none the worse for his little chat with Francesca. Or show up at Adagio and drag his ass home. Maybe drown her sorrows and then show up at Adagio. Yeah. That'd work. She'd be immune to embarrassment and humiliation and her mother's barbs after she'd downed a few more shots and got loosened up and ready for a fight.
Francesca's doing you a favor.
If he doesn't love you, better you find out now—before the Testing.
Put him out of your mind. Forget him.
He's not worth it. You can do better.
All lies.
She couldn't do better. And love had little to do with anything—not when their true feelings were complicated by Pieter's spell. Spells and curses be damned, she wanted Wulf in her life. She wanted him any way she could have him. Period. End of story. She tossed the first shot down her throat and waited for the false heat to warm her belly.
"Fancy meeting you here." His voice slimed down her spine.
Without bothering to turn around, she downed her second shot and clicked her fingers at the barman to hit her with another couple. "Not interested. Go away."
He leaned on the bar and ordered a beer. Sheesh. This guy couldn't take a hint.
"I see you haven't changed a bit," he said. "Still the same old Chalcey."
She shot him a sideways glance from beneath her lashes, and nearly fell off her stool. The long hair he used to slick with gel and tie back with a leather thong was currently a shaggy, unkempt mess, but it was definitely him. Terry—or Terrence, as he'd insisted on being called.
Her old dance partner. The one she'd dumped because he'd been incapable of comprehending that the intimacy necessary between dance partners on the contest circuit was fake. Just because she gazed into his eyes and did the sultry thing when they danced, didn't mean she'd sleep with him. Nor that he had any right to be jealous when she so much as glanced at another man.
Great. Just great. She'd rather deal with Ray than with Terrence right now. And considering how much she despised Ray, that was really saying something.
"Terry." She raised her shot glass to him and tossed it down her throat.
"So. Haven't seen you 'round the competition circuit."
"Nope."
"You're still dancing with Jai."
"Yep."
"Pity."
"You're entitled to your opinion." Jeez. How rude did she have to be before he got the message?
"Where's the brick shithouse?"
"Huh?"
"Your boyfriend," he said.
This time she swiveled on her stool to confront him directly. "How the hell do you know I've got a boyfriend?"
He swigged his beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Checked out your opening night party at your studio. Couldn't resist. Nice space. You might even make a go of it if you get yourself a decent partner to help out."
Meow. Terrence had never liked Jai—always had some snide little remark at the ready. He couldn't stand that Jai was by far the better dancer. He'd never understood that Jai would always be the better dancer, because for Jai, dancing wasn't about technical perfection. Jai danced from the heart, and it showed.
"I didn't see you there," she said.
"I know."
He seemed very pleased with himself. Oh God. He'd probably witnessed the whole nasty encounter between Marcus and Wulf. And doubtless he'd had a fun time spreading equally nasty rumors about her studio around the dance community. He hadn't taken it at all well when she'd dumped him and asked Jai to partner her.
"Where is he?" Terrence asked.
Persistent, much? "Why do you want to know about Wulf?"
"So that's his name."
"What's it to you, anyway, Terry?
"Just curious. So where is he?"
"He's busy tonight."
"Oh, yeah? Good for him. How's about we go somewhere private—just you and me—and catch up on old times? You never did thank me properly for buying you that costume."
Wow. Loaded statement. She speared him with a ball-shriveling glare. "How's about we don't, Terry. How's about you get it through your thick head that I'm not interested, okay? How's about that?"
"For fuck's sake, Chalcey. It was only a suggestion. No need to get your panties in a wad."
"Go away, Terry." She couldn't deal with this right now. She waved to snag the bartender's attention and downed her shot, thumping the empty glass down on the bar with enough force that she wobbled atop the barstool.
Terrence grabbed her upper arm, his fingers pressing into her skin hard enough to bruise. She gave him her best evils. "Get your hand off me. Now. Or you'll lose it."
He ignored her request. "Don't be like that, Chalcey. You and me. We were good together, right?"
The bartender materialized with the shots. "This guy bugging you?" he asked, searching Chalcey's face.
Terrence released her with a scowl and chugged his beer.
"Yep." She rubbed her arm. "He's bugging me. I seriously wish he'd piss off and leave me alone."
The bartender gave Terrence the fish-eye. "You heard the lady. Piss off."
Terence bristled. He'd never appreciated being told what to do. Even the slightest hint that his footwork or arm positioning wasn't up to scratch would set him off. "You work here, right? You got no right to interfere with a private conversation." He curled his lip at the bartender, eyeing him like he was inferior for working the bar.
The bartender polished a glass with his towel and shot Terrence a "don't mess with me if you know what's good for you" glare. "It's my place, bud. I can do what the fuck I like. You wanna make something of it?"
The testosterone levels skyrocketed. God. Couldn't she even have a quiet drink without drama? Chalcey downed both shots in quick succession.
Another guy eased on up and clamped a hand on Terrence's shoulder. "Reckon it's time you hit the road, buddy."
"Yeah?" Terrence shrugged off the hand and rounded on the newcomer. "Says who?"
The guy flashed an ID of some sort and merely stood there, rock-solid, letting his ID speak for itself.
Terrence held up both hands and backed away, all belligerence and cocky arrogance punctured. He tried a smile on for size, but it only looked sickly. "Didn't mean no harm." He jerked his chin at Chalcey. "She's a looker, right? Can't blame a man for trying, right?" He turned on his heel and fled the bar, barreling through the door so fast, he nearly assed over.
"Buhbye, Terry. Be seeing you.... Not." Chalcey turned her attention back to her shot glasses.
"Ms Laureano, I think it's time you went home."
She blinked at the newcomer. "How d'you know my name?"
"We have a mutual friend."
She closed one eye and squinted at him, searching her memory. "We do?"
"Will Sparling."
"Ohhh. Will. Sure. Any friend of Will's is a friend of mine." She toasted him with an empty shot glass. "Shit. It's empty." She didn't remember drinking it. She pointed to the glass and waggled her eyebrows at the bartender.
"I think she'll pass on that," Will's friend said, and to Chalcey's chagrin, the bartender nodded, obviously agreeing with him.
"How about I take you home, Ms Laureano?"
"But I want another drink. And then I have somewhere I need to go. Or maybe not. I haven't decided yet."
"Reckon you've had enough, love," the bartender said. "Dude here is a cop. Do me a favor and let him see you home before you attract any more attention from scumbags hoping to take advantage."
She fixed her gaze on Will's friend. He was about an inch shorter than her, but stocky, and certainly no lightweight. His gray-peppered hair had been shaved so darn close to his skull it made her wince. His jeans had seen better days, but his t-shirt was bright white. Her gaze drifted to his left-hand ring finger. Yep. Married. It had to be that or a very attentive girlfriend.
He grinned in such a boyish fashion that it was difficult to figure why he'd spooked Terrence so thoroughly. "I'm not gonna hit on you, Ms Laureano. Cop's honor." He placed a hand over his heart.
"Okay, Will's friend. I guess I'm ready to go home now."
"That's my girl."
Chalcey settled her tab with her emergency credit card and tucked it back into the teeny tiny evening bag Sam had loaned her.
Will's friend assisted her to climb down from the barstool with a hand beneath her elbow. She was rather grateful for the courtesy. A full-length, dry-clean-only cocktail dress and killer heels wasn't ideal attire for perching atop high barstools.
As it turned out, nor was it the most comfortable of outfits to totter home in. She got a few feet down the pavement before she halted to step out of her slip-on pumps and shove them beneath her armpit. The crisp night air cut straight through the fabric of her dress. Damn the cost. She didn't fancy walking home barefoot. And, lucky her, she was about to come into some money so she could afford to use her emergency credit card again.
"You can walk me to the nearest cab rack if you like, Will's friend."
"I'd give you my jacket. If I was wearing one."
"Awww. That's sweet. Appreciate the thought, Will's friend."
"Call me Rick."
"Call me Chalcey. It's less of a mouthful than Chalcedony."
"You can say that again."
"Blame my mother." Yeah. Blame her for a lot of things. "So how come you happened by my bar, Rick? And don't try and tell me it was just a happy coincidence. I may be half drunk but I'm not all stupid."
"Will mentioned your auction, so I made it my mission to cruise past your studio a couple of times. When I spotted this guy lurking, at first I thought it might be your other admirer, Mr. Walker. Figured I'd stick around for a bit, see what he was up to. Sure enough, what do I see? You rushing out the door, and him following you."
Chalcey's stomach gave a lurch. She suspected the sick feeling wasn't caused by a little too much tequila, either. "Terrence followed me to the bar?"
Rick nodded. "Who is he?"
"Ex dance partner."
"With a grudge?"
"If dumping him a few weeks out from a competition counts, then yeah. I guess so." She summoned a laugh, and winced when it sounded off.
"Look, Chalcey, if you're really worried about this guy, you could come down to the precinct and take out a restraining order on him."
She chewed that over. Tempting. But— "Nah. Terrence always was a bit of a creep but I don't think he'll bother me anymore. You frightened him off big-time. I bet he's peeing his pants right about now."
"Perhaps. But I'm seeing you home, just in case." He collared a cab and ushered her into the backseat before giving the cabbie the studio's address.
"But what about your car? Didn't you leave it parked somewhere near the bar?"
He waved a hand, dismissing her concerns.
"Thanks," she said.
"You're welcome." He grinned again. "Any friend of Will's is a friend of mine."
"I see a free dance class in your future, Rick."
He slanted her such a startled glance that she giggled. "Haven't heard that line before, huh? Will and Anna are doing classes. You should bring your wife or sister or whoever to a class, too. Bet you'd both enjoy it. "
"Nice sales pitch," he said.
She shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a nice person."
"So, why's a nice girl like you getting trashed in a bar?" He tapped his cheek, and narrowed his gaze. "Lemme guess. Boyfriend troubles?"
"You're good. Yeah. Boyfriend troubles."
"Tell me about it," he invited.
He was a cop, and a friend of Will's. So she explained about the auction. And her mother's part in it. Of course, she still had enough sense left to avoid mentioning all the supernatural woo-woo. No point in giving Rick the impression that she was certifiable.
"Not a good look, your mother bidding for your boyfriend. She sounds like a real piece of work."
"Gold star for you," she said.
He awkwardly patted her arm. "It's just a dinner date. It'll be okay. You'll see."
The cab pulled up out front of her studio, and Rick instructed the driver to wait while he walked her to the door. He hung around while she fumbled for her key. And told her that he wasn't leaving until he heard her deadlock the door from the inside.
Will's friend Rick was a thorough man.
Chalcey dragged herself up the stairs and through the doorway into the dimly lit studio. Sam's plethora of eager flunkies had cleaned up all the mess. The place was spotless—so immaculate that, except for the temporary stage, no one would ever have guessed there'd been a function earlier.
She cocked her head to one side, blinking rapidly when her vision blurred as she contemplated said stage. Maybe she could keep it, use it for classes. Teachers could dance on it. Sure would make it easier for people to see them. She pictured a class in her head. Maybe not. Being elevated above students would be just asking guys to peer up skirts. And if by some chance Leah didn't mind, well she certainly did.
She whacked a hand in the general direction of the light switches, hit them to off more by accident than design, and wobbled through to her bedroom. It crossed her mind that she would probably regret not removing her makeup—foundation and mascara smeared all over the pillowcase, goopy panda-eyes and such—but tonight, all that cleansing, toning and hyped-up palaver would only delay her from what she craved. Oblivion. Her only concession to comfort was stripping off her dress and hanging it up before she tumbled into bed.
The trouble with not drinking enough to actually pass out was that even though she was tired and sick, each time she lay back and closed her eyes the world spun and she wanted to throw up. She'd pry open her eyelids, sit up until the nausea receded, lay down again, and the whole damn cycle would start over.
After a half hour, she seriously contemplated crawling into the bathroom and sticking her fingers down her throat. But she was a wuss. So she suffered. Until thankfully, at some stage she drifted off to sleep. Probably with her eyes open, because she didn't remember closing them. And when she awoke, they were grainy and swollen and sore as hell, like someone had tossed a handful of grit in her face.
She rolled out of bed and lurched to her feet. The world tilted, and so did her abused stomach. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she broke into a shambling run.
When she'd finished throwing up a bucketful of tequila shots, had washed her face and bathed her eyes, she vowed she was never going to overindulge in alcohol again. No matter what the provocation. In fact, she felt so damned wretched that she vowed to give up alcohol entirely.
Well, except for the tequila she bought as a special treat. Because that was really, really good tequila. And expensive, so she wouldn't be able to afford it very often.
She finally pulled her crap together enough to wander into the kitchenette and make some coffee to wash down the aspirin. It was then that she realized she was missing something even more important than her morning caffeine fix. Ice-cold fear smashed her like a ton of bricks. She sprinted back to her bedroom, ignoring her thudding head.
Wulf was not asleep in her bed. Nor was he anywhere else in the studio. She knew this for sure, because she raced around and checked everywhere he could possibly be. The kitchenette where she'd just been, behind the stage in the studio, the bathrooms, each shower and toilet cubicle.... Then, desperation making her stupid, she checked places he couldn't possibly be unless he'd become a contortionist.
No Wulf.
She dragged her sorry butt back to the bedroom, all the while lecturing herself that there was no need to panic. He must have returned while she was out cold, woken up before she had, and headed out again. Yeah. That was it.
She focused on the bed, noting its one obviously slept-upon pillow. Rumpled bedding on the left side. A perfectly made-up, smooth right side—his side. She couldn't hide from the truth any longer. Wulf hadn't come home last night.
The bedroom closed in on her. She needed space, air. She staggered out into the main studio and stood, head hanging, sucking in deep shuddering breaths. Enough. She had to do something, had to know for sure.
She perched on the edge of the registration desk to use the phone. Her hand shook as she dialed Sam's number. She swung her foot in time to the phone's rings.
Finally, Marcus answered. "Is Wulf there?" she asked, too anxious to bother with pleasantries.
"That you, Chalcey?"
"Yes. Is he there?"
"No. Is something—?"
She hung up and dialed the club where Wulf worked, just in case he'd gone straight there after his dinner date. Not that he had any reason to, since he'd taken the night off. But he might have gone in if someone had called in sick, right? No answer. Not surprising since it was now past eight and the club would be closed.
She even dialed Adagio, only to hang up when the restaurant's message service kicked in. What could she say? "Excuse me, but did you happen to notice a really large man dressed in leather pants and a vest asleep under a table when you closed up for the evening?" Huh. She'd sound like a crazy woman.
She gnawed her thumbnail while she dredged up the courage to make the next call. Pacing the floor did nothing for her state of mind. Dammit. If she didn't do it now, she'd never summon the courage to do it later.
Hotel reception dialed her mother's room. The call took an eternity to connect.
"Hello?"
His husky, sleep-filled voice kicked her right in the gut. She doubled over, gasping, on the verge of puking up her guts again. Betrayal hammered her soul.
"W-Wulf?" she finally managed to gasp. There would be a logical explanation for him answering the phone in her mother's suite. There had to be.
"What is it that you want, Chalcedony?"
She clutched the receiver, her knuckles turning white. What the hell kind of a question was that? "You. I want you." She squeezed her eyelids shut. If she said aloud what she was thinking, she might make it true. She couldn't bear it to be true. But not knowing was killing her. "I don't care where you spent the night. Or who you spent it with."
His pause seemed to go on forever, while her heart tripped in her chest and her skin went hot-cold-hot. And then his voice lashed out at her. "After what we have gone through together, how can you think so little of me? Do you truly believe that I would seek solace in the arms of another?"
She nearly dropped the phone. "But my mother. She—"
"Enough. I will discuss this no further."
His voice sounded flat and so desperately tired that Chalcey's heart ached. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it. Of course I didn't think that you and she— You have to come home. Please, Wulf. I-I need you. When are you coming home?
"I am not coming home, Chalcedony. Francesca was correct. We are not meant for each other. I know that now. And I accept my fate."
Dread squeezed her heart. "No! You can't. Whatever she said to you— It doesn't matter. You belong here, with me. Come home, Wulf. Please?"
"I cannot. For your sake, I cannot."
"No!" She screamed into the disconnected phone. "No."
The truth hit her, and there was no escaping it. She'd been using Pieter's spell as an excuse to hold a tiny part of herself back from Wulf. But what she felt for him was crystal clear. It was something that she'd never felt for any other man and no spell could replicate those feelings. At night, wrapped in his arms, listening to his even breathing as he slipped into sleep, she felt warm and safe and loved. She loved him. Real, gut-wrenching, want to be with him forever, love.
She found herself lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, with no memory of toppling from her seat on the edge of the registration desk. Tears welled, dripped silently down her cheeks.
She loved Wulf. And instead of telling him that, she'd blathered on about wanting him, needing him, everything but telling him the truth.
And God, how she wished that she'd told him, made him listen, forced him to believe her, because maybe, just maybe, it might have made a difference. But now it was too late.
~*~
Copyright 2011 by Maree Anderson
www.mareeanderson.com