The Medium's Possession Read online

  She could feel its reaction. Feel it recoiling under her skin, pushing against the cloak, trying to force its way out.

  That was all the motivation—all the confirmation—Zander needed.

  She propped her wrist across her knee, closed her eyes, and brought the blade to her skin.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scott entered his code into the security system touchscreen by the door to the sound of the system’s chiming you-better-enter-your-code-now-or-I’m-gonna-go-ballistic grace period. Then he casually flipped the bird toward the camera mounted behind the reception desk as he crossed the now-silent space to his station. It wasn’t yet 9AM but here he was, at the tattoo shop.

  He had to pack his shit up sometime—better to do it now before he had an audience.

  And, you know, while he sure as shit didn’t want to be at home.

  Dropping his bag on the chair in his station, he scooped one of the plastic crates he’d collected over the last few weeks up off the floor then surveyed his space.

  Some of the paintings, the ones he’d painted specifically for the shop, he would leave behind. Those were more theirs than his anyway. But, more than that, he wanted to leave his mark on this place—and leaving his artwork behind was better than carving “Scott was here” into the brick wall.

  Not that that wasn’t tempting.

  He pulled his rolling stool over to the credenza on the far side of his station, popped the doors and began sorting through the years of crap inside—everything from art supplies to tattooing equipment—boxing the things he wanted to keep, chucking the rest into the garbage can that sat in the corner.

  This had been his first gig as a full-fledged tattoo artist. He’d spent eight years tattooing people in this cube—from age 20 to 28.

  And now he’d move on to his next shop, and tattoo Seattle-dwellers while grey sky light filtered through the window.

  Assuming they were still going, of course.

  Scott stopped what he was doing, memory fingers of the morning wrapping themselves around his chest.

  What was Zander’s problem? In all the months they’d all lived together, he’d witnessed her sarcastic sense of humor; he’d even admired her cynicism from time to time.

  Standing, he hoisted the now full crate up from the floor and carried it across the room. Then he swapped it out for an empty and went to finish what he’d started.

  Stress could do that to a person, he’d told himself over the last couple of weeks, when her dry wit had begun to turn acerbic, her sarcasm biting instead of good hearted. Her job had turned into a nightmare, he knew that. The kind of nightmare that turned gradually worse over time so you didn’t realize just how awful it was until you were already too deep to wake-up. But what he’d witnessed this morning? That shit wasn’t bad-job-stress; that had been all out bitch in a pixie cut and a band tee.

  A sliver of him was worried about her. Something must be wrong to make her act like that, right? The rest of him, however—the majority of him—didn’t give a shit. The put-up-walls-to-protect-himself part, the part of him developed over a childhood spent in the foster care system was already gone—had already written her off.

  God, that was shitty of him. He knew it was. He could hear his therapist in his head as sure as if he was sitting in her office.

  “Let’s unpack that,” she’d say. “It’s natural for that to be your first reaction, but you can choose how to respond.”

  And usually he could. This time...? Yeah, right now he wasn’t so sure about that.

  Anyone who hurt Callum automatically won a place on Scott’s short list of fuck-yous.

  So it all came down to Callum and what he wanted to do.

  If he wanted to forgive Zander for what had gone down this morning, that was cool, Scott could follow suit—eventually. But if Cal’s plan was to tell her to fuck off, then that’s what they would do. And if that meant Callum wanted to stay in New Orleans, they would make that work too.

  There were things that would suck about that scenario, for sure—not the least of which was squashing whatever was going on between he and Cecily—but he could handle that.

  Really.

  He had to try harder than he cared to admit to ignore the way his insides squirmed at that.

  Still, maybe it was for the best. That kiss last night—it had been neon bright in the darkness. Incredible. It had stitched together parts of him he hadn’t known had been coming loose. But she hadn’t been ready for that. She wanted it, he knew she did, it was obvious, not just in her actions but in her words. But that didn’t mean her heart was ready to connect like that again. Her reaction in his bed had been proof of it—the conversation he’d overheard her having with Trey this morning had solidified the truth. And he wasn’t mad about it. That was real life. Sometimes you wanted things you couldn’t handle. He’d been there. He got it. He just wanted her to be okay.

  But, wow that kiss...

  An hour or so later, Scott was just boxing up the last of his supplies and wiping down the space when the bell on the shop door chimed its cheery note and Jonathan appeared at the mouth of his station.

  “You’re here early,” he remarked, his tone holding a suspicious kind of question.

  Scott looked up at his used-to-be-boss and tried for light and airy. “Yeah, I figured I’d get a jump on this.”

  “You look like hell.”

  Scott tossed a wad of damp paper towels into the trashcan. “You always say the sweetest things. What are you doing here so early? The shop doesn’t open for hours.”

  “It doesn’t open at all today—it’s Monday.”

  Oh yeah. “All the more reason for my previous question.”

  “It seemed weird that you’d be here so early,” Jonathan said. “I thought I’d come down and make sure everything was okay.”

  “Just the best time to do it, like I said.” Scott sat the final bin with all the others. “My space is clear—you find another artist yet?”

  “Hell no. I’m not even searching until I know you’re really gone.”

  He wouldn’t admit it aloud, of course, but Scott found a hell of a lot of satisfaction in that.

  “Well, since you’re here, I figure maybe I can corner you into going to the bar tonight,” Jonathan added when Scott didn’t respond right away.

  Shit. Scott kicked himself. He’d promised one last night out as DD to their debauchery before he left—now he wasn’t certain he’d be able to hold up his end of the deal.

  He wasn’t certain he was leaving any longer either, but that was neither here nor there at the moment, wasn’t it?

  “What about now?” Scott offered.

  Jonathan looked surprised, like he thought Scott might have lost his mind. “Now? It’s—” he looked at his phone, “10:30 in the morning.”

  “So make it a Bloody Mary,” Scott shot back. “The shop’s closed today. And if you day-drink you won’t have a hangover to contend with for opening tomorrow.”

  Jonathan pointed his phone at him, still held in his hand from the time-check. “That’s sound fucking thinking right there. I’ll text Brad.”

  “Perfect. Cool if I leave these crates until I can swing by with the car to pick ‘em up?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Jonathan replied, eyes glued to his screen. Then, “Brad says he’ll meet us there.”

  “Day drinking like rock stars!”

  Scott looked up in time to see Brad belly up to the bar and settle onto a stool on the far side of Jonathan.

  Scott laughed. “Like tattoo artists on their day off, at least.”

  “Good enough for me,” Brad replied, ticking a nod at the bartender. As soon as his double Bloody Mary was in his hand, he raised his glass. “Seems like we should toast or some shit.”

  Jonathan grunted his agreement as he swallowed down his latest gulp of beer before raising his own glass.

  An anvil in his chest, Scott raised his glass of clear-and-bubbly.

  “To not forgetting about us,” Br
ad announced.

  “To new adventures,” Jonathan added. “Tattooing in hipster-ville.”

  Scott took a swig of club soda and laughed. “Maybe I should keep a tally of the hipsters I tattoo, huh?”

  Brad threw his head back and laughed, his gauged ears bobbing. “Oh my god, do it!”

  Jonathan was quiet, however. “What’s doing?” he asked the moment Scott had swallowed down his latest sip.

  Scott shook his head. “Nothing. Just admiring the bouquet on this sparkling water.” He winked.

  Jonathan didn’t buy it. “Uh huh. Everything cool with that girl of yours?”

  It took Scott a second to realize Jonathan was asking about Cecily. “Oh. Yeah, Cecily is great.” Made out with her last night, in fact.

  But he shook the thought from his head. If he wasn’t careful, he’d get lost in the memory of having her in his bed and completely miss the conversation happening right in front of him. And wouldn’t that be awkward?

  “Okay, so...?” Jonathan pried. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you just didn’t correct me when I called her your girl.”

  Scott gave him a look and rolled his eyes. “I’ve given up trying to turn you into a gentleman.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I’ll call it a going away present.”

  “You do that.” Scott took another swig of soda, hoping Jonathan didn’t notice the edge to his tone.

  “It was a valiant effort,” Brad added.

  Scott wasn’t mad at Jonathan—his tone had nothing to do with him, in fact—so best to leave it alone. He was still steamed at Zander, yeah. But, more than that, he was annoyed that Zander’s...quarter-life crisis—or whatever the hell was going on—was putting into jeopardy the plans the three of them had been working toward for months. The search to find a new tattoo shop had been a chore in and of itself, not to mention finding a place to live, and the money they’d spent traveling to Seattle to arrange all of that stuff.

  “Tell us about the place you found,” Brad asked, peering around Jonathan. “All you’ve told us is that Zander’s mom called in some favor or something.”

  Scott shook his head. “We’re renting a house from one of Zander’s mom’s friends. She’s giving us a solid deal, that’s all.” Which was good, because otherwise there was no way they’d have been able to live anywhere with a Seattle address.

  Holy shit rent was expensive there. Like, sell a kidney to afford a studio apartment expensive. But Zander’s mom had hooked them up; her friend owned the place outright and wasn’t looking to gouge them.

  “Damn, that’s nice,” Brad replied. “Zander for the win.”

  “Yeah, assuming that all still works out.” It was out of Scott’s mouth before he could stop it.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jonathan asked, jumping on the slip before Scott could even hope he hadn’t caught it.

  Scott sighed and ran a hand up the back of his head, brushing the short-trimmed hairs against the grain. It was something he did when he was uncomfortable—Zander had pointed it out some months ago.

  “Zander and Callum are having some issues,” he said. “So it’s a little up in the air if we’ll even be moving to Seattle now.” Beyond the part about possibly staying in New Orleans, it wasn’t really his business to share, after all.

  “Wait, how does Zander and Callum having issues mean you might not move?” Jonathan challenged. “I mean, other than the sweet deal on the rental.”

  “Well, we were moving to Seattle because Zander got a new job,” Scott explained.

  “Okay. I’m still not seeing it.”

  Really? How hard was this?

  “If Callum and Zander break up, we won’t need to move to Seattle,” Scott said simply.

  “Callum won’t need to move,” Jonathan replied. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need to.”

  It took Scott a second to comprehend that logic. Could he imagine parting ways with Callum—with his all-but-brother? Callum was his only family. He couldn’t walk away from that. “Nah, Cal is my brother,” he said. “Where he goes, I go. And if he doesn’t want Seattle, neither do I.”

  “So you’d stay in New Orleans?” Jonathan asked.

  Scott gave a nod, shrugged, and took another sip of soda water. Then he braced himself for a lecture as Jonathan drew a slow breath.

  The guy had twenty years on him. He could probably benefit from his insight—even if he chose not to take his advice.

  “Okay, look,” said Jonathan, “I wasn’t gonna tell you this because sunk costs, and sailed ships and all that, but if there’s a chance you’re gonna stay in New Orleans, I’d be wrong not to. I was planning to offer you partial ownership in the shop next year.”

  Scott nearly choked on his soda. He was pretty sure his eyes were bugging out of his head when he turned to look at his ex-boss.

  “You’re a damn good artist,” Jonathan went on, “with a straight head on your shoulders—which is rare. I love my shop, but I don’t want to do this forever—I need somebody to take it over. I thought maybe that person could be you.”

  It took a second for Scott to come up with something to say. Partial ownership? Next year?

  It was like a dream Scott hadn’t ever known he’d had coming true.

  Wasn’t it?

  He’d toyed with the idea of owning his own shop one day, but it was a daydream he hadn’t invested any time into—nothing he’d looked into with any seriousness.

  But now that it was staring him in the face... Yeah, that was hard to say no to.

  Jonathan took a swig of his beer. When his gaze returned to Scott, it hung on something behind him.

  “Scott?”

  Scott spun on his stool to find Cecily there. Her milk-chocolate hair was long and loose, the strands at the front pushed back and falling like she’d run her hands through it to push it out of her clear, green eyes.

  Now he was really speechless. He loved it when her hair did that.

  Cecily smiled as her gaze shifted to something just over his shoulder then back to his face. “Hey, sorry to interrupt.”

  Interrupt?

  Oh yeah. Jonathan and Brad.

  Scott shook himself back into thinking. “Hey. No, you’re not—” he turned, motioning to his friends. “This is Jonathan and Brad—I tattoo with them. I think you’ve met before, right?”

  “Once, yeah.” She lifted a hand in greeting but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Hey.”

  “Wait, what are you doing here?” Scott asked, his brain finally catching up to the present as Jonathan and Brad gave their own greetings.

  Cecily pushed her hair back out of her eyes, flicking the ends back and leaning her head to one side in a way that made his brain try to short circuit again.

  “I was out looking for Zander,” she said. “Callum and I split up. I came this way and figured I’d find her—or I’d find you.”

  More than what she’d just said, it was the way her eyes dipped, then hung on him while she said it, the way her lips parted as he returned her stare that had him getting up from his seat. “Zander left?”

  “She left right after you and Callum did.” Cecily shook her head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, though. You should hang with your friends.”

  “Nah, this is more important.” He turned to Brad and Jonathan. “I should help Callum and Cecily find Zander. You understand, yeah?”

  Both men raised their glasses.

  “Go,” said Jonathan. “Family is family.”

  Scott’s tongue tripped as he tried to respond, uncertain what to say in light of everything. Instead, he smiled with a scoff of a sigh as he fished a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slapped it down onto the bar. “Drink until the tip makes sense,” he said.

  “You got it,” Brad replied, reaching across and taking the bill from the bar.

  “And you think about what I said,” Jonathan called as Scott turned to follow Cecily out.

  Scott turned back and gave a nod to his old boss—and
potential business partner. Then he followed Cecily out into the blinding sunlight of near mid-day.

  “They seem nice,” Cecily said as Scott joined her on the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, they’re good guys,” Scott replied. “I wish you’d texted me when Zander left—I didn’t realize you were alone at the house.” God, he felt like a jackass knowing she’d been there by herself in the aftermath of all that shit this morning.

  He’d have stayed if he’d known Zander hadn’t.

  “It’s okay,” Cecily said with a dismissive shake of her head. “I had a good cry. Then I finished packing the bathroom. I was labeling the last box when Callum got home.”

  Scott’s feet stuck on the sidewalk for a beat; he had to jog a step to catch back up.

  She’d been crying? Alone?

  He didn’t know what to say through the soundtrack running on a loop through his head telling him what a dick he was.

  “Anyway, at least the time was productive,” she went on with a smile that fell short of mirth. “But I’ll admit I was surprised when the door opened and it wasn’t her. Even more surprised when I saw what time it was.”

  “More surprised than you were by the entire morning?”

  Cecily’s sigh of a laugh was sad. “No, not more surprised than that.”

  He wanted to tell her how much he liked her sleeping in his bed. How much he liked the way his pillows smelled like her hair when he woke up. How he wasn’t mad about what he’d heard her saying to Trevor this morning—he got the feeling she was worried he would be upset, but he wasn’t and he wanted to make sure she knew that.

  He wanted to say it all, but now wasn’t the time.

  In fact, he was sort of insensitive for thinking it right then.

  “I never took Zander for an angry wanderer,” he said instead, trying to keep it light.

  “She’s not,” was Cecily’s response.

  “Well maybe she’s home already,” Scott offered. “Where did Callum go to look?”

  “French quarter, I think.” She shrugged. “I offered to walk the few ways I know, but I think you’re right. Somebody should be at home in case she comes back.”

  “Maybe she wants to be alone,” Scott said. The last thing he wanted to be was calloused, but Zander was a grown woman. She was capable of delivering herself home when she was done stewing.