Stifled (Summoned Book 2) Read online

  I make no move for the tablet wedged against the console. “Okay.”

  Silence.

  Then she shudders out a breath. “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No.”

  “Want to go back to the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “I'm sorry, Dim,” she says, and she sounds genuine but I can't bring myself to care. “Just tell me where you want to go.”

  “The store.”

  ***

  When Syd had been staring at the tablet trying to decide how to answer Lyle, I saw everything I need to know: my target house is locked down.

  As we enter L.A., I map the nearest hardware store and pass my phone to Syd. She takes it without saying anything. A few minutes later, we pull in to a shopping center and roam the aisles of the store in silence.

  Every time I add something to the cart, she looks more surprised than last. Still, she doesn't break our new code of conduct where we don't speak anymore than necessary. Apparently, she has no idea what a Dremel, a pair of pliers, a hacksaw, a bottle of lubricant, an extension cable, and a crowbar have in common.

  I do.

  ***

  Back at the hotel, I shower and then crawl into bed to watch TV until I pass out. Syd returns to the laptop on the table. She's probably going to read every document twice.

  We still aren't talking, which is fine since I have plenty of noise in my brain. But it's not the break-ins that are keeping me awake. It's everything else. We don't know why or how the female jinn has gone renegade, if she has. We don't know how Ian Cook figures into all of this. And we don't know what's going to happen next time my fan club catches up with me.

  I doze off at some point and wake a while later. My mouth is dry. The TV is still running. Syd has her head on her arms on the table, out cold.

  I fumble out of bed, cross the room to the mini fridge, and grab a bottle of water. As much as I try to ignore Syd, my gaze continues to roam back to her.

  Her perpetual mask of certainty has slipped off in her sleep. Underneath is a scowl and worry lines. She needs to come to bed. Needs to relax for a few hours before tackling another day in Bedlam.

  Plus, she's going to have a stiff neck if she sleeps the whole night like this.

  With a sigh, I place the water bottle on the nightstand and approach her. I expect her to sit with a start, but she doesn't budge.

  I poke her shoulder a few times.

  She stirs a little, then rubs her eyes as she sits. Her gaze travels up to my face, but she doesn't seem to be entirely back from Nod.

  I reach down to hook her under the arm and help her to her feet. It's like trying to make a cooked noodle stand up. Pretty sure she has no idea what we're doing. Then again, I can't remember the last time she actually slept, either.

  “Come on, Sleeping Beauty.” I scoop her up against my chest and stagger over to the bed.

  Her body is limp in my arms. I lower her to the bed, and she melts into the mattress. I work the blankets from under her.

  “Are you mad at me?” Her voice is small.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling the covers over her. “Now get some rest.”

  “I don't want you to hate me.”

  “I don't hate you, Syd. Stop worrying.” I step back to drink the bottle of water.

  She watches me with tired, hurt eyes. I place the bottle back on the nightstand, then round the bed to the other side and crawl under the blankets next to her.

  Her body turns toward mine, and her hand goes right to the crotch of my boxers. I try to move her hand up to my side, but she squirms around and is out of her clothes so fast someone should call Guinness.

  She props herself over me, forcing me to lay flat, and kisses deep. I relent to her tongue as she presses her warm, bare body against mine. My hands slide over her hips, onto her ass. She straddles my leg and grinds into me.

  Syd has one antidote to all this bullshit in our life. So I ease her back to the mattress, until she's lying on my arm at my side.

  My free hand trails down her stomach. Her body arches a little, urging me along. A desperate moan whimpers in my ear.

  I want nothing more than to be her antidote. To be the reason she can be calm and collected tomorrow.

  My fingers slip to either side of her and gently spread her apart.

  She gasps. “Please.”

  Her anguish is beautiful and heartbreaking. I wish I could do more for her, something that would actually fix everything that is wrong. All I can give her are a few moments.

  I graze one finger right where I know sends sparks through her body. She shudders, and her cry is caught in her throat.

  I use my leg to trap one of hers. My fingers run the length of her, not quite where she needs, but enough to make her breathing pick up. She's so wet, I consider crawling on top. Her eyes are red with exhaustion though.

  Instead, I hold her and tease her until she's rocking her hips.

  I whisper in her ear, “You really want it, don't you?”

  She gives a small noise in affirmation. Words seem to be beyond her.

  I home in right where she wants it. Her body convulses and arches next to mine as she cries out. It's the most uninhibited display of raw pleasure I've ever seen.

  Goddamn.

  Her shuddering and gasping begin to simmer. She tries to turn, to nestle her back against my chest. My leg catches hers tighter. My fingers go right back for where we left off.

  She glances at me, eyes heavy. She wavers in and out, but makes soft noises. Then her body grows tense and her breathing picks up.

  I clamp my mouth onto hers as she comes again. She doesn't return the kiss, but her body squirms and presses against mine. When she calms, I shove off the blankets and wedge between her legs.

  I move down and run my tongue up the glistening trail on her thigh. Then my tongue plunges into the source, prodding deep and making her squirm with anticipation all over again.

  Her hands go to the back of my head and my shoulder. She moans and relaxes into it. Maybe the third time will send her into the unconscious bliss she's wanting.

  Then she whispers, “Fuck me, Dim. Please.”

  I'm so hard, I'm pretty sure she's not getting another round of fireworks from it. But she keeps asking, chanting, until I finish stripping and then cover her body with mine.

  She guides me right inside, wrapping her legs around my waist.

  Her eyes settle on mine, and it's the most coherent she's been since I brought her from the table. “Please don't leave me.”

  My brain sort of stops. Blame the redirected blood flow. I thrust into her until I'm over the edge. Even when the ecstasy passes, there's so much heat and need between us. Not lust, but desperation never to be alone. I rest on top of her

  She bites my chest, my shoulder, my neck. I bring her mouth to mine and kiss her deep.

  “I'm not going anywhere,” I say, then settle back onto the mattress.

  I grab the box of tissues from the nightstand and, afterward, she snuggles down in my arms to sleep. There's more going on, things she isn't telling me. So far, I've done everything she's asked, but it's somehow not enough.

  I wonder what she would wish if I was still her genie.

  ***

  When I wake up, Syd is still out cold, so I roll over to go back to sleep. Then I remember what's on the agenda for today. I slap around on the nightstand for my phone. Can't find it. I sit up, spot it on the other nightstand, and lean over her snoozing body to grab it.

  It's almost eleven in the morning.

  Syd stirs.

  I shake her hip. “I gotta get this train chugging.”

  “It's still daylight out.” She flips over to look at me. “Shouldn't you wait until tonight?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  She sighs. “Am I coming with you?”

  “Quit sniffing glue.” I crawl out of bed and stretch. “I gotta take the car though, so you need to figure out what you're doing today.”

  “Just reading
through those files,” she says around a yawn. “Seems like every time we go out, something crazy happens.”

  “Now you're getting it.” I lumber over to the vanity to wash up.

  Syd pads across the room to the bathroom, but stops in the doorway. “Your stuff is still in the trunk, MacGyver.”

  “There's really nothing MacGyver about a saw and a crowbar.” I rinse off my toothbrush and return to the main area to get dressed.

  Her eyes follow me. “And you learned all these tricks from the Internet?”

  “No,” I say, slipping on a t-shirt, “I learned all this from a hum in my head.”

  She lowers her gaze.

  I check my guns, load up my jacket, and turn to face her. She has her mask back on, but I'm starting to see the cracks in it.

  I motion her over. She's at me in a few paces.

  I wrap my arms around her and pull her naked body against me. “I'll call you as soon as I get out, but I'm going to head straight to Lyle's from there.”

  “Swing by and pick me up first,” she says.

  “No, I just want to get in and out.” I kiss her forehead. “You're not going to miss anything. JiNet is a bunch of dumbclucks.”

  She frowns. “I liked them. Some of them.”

  I mean to ask her why, but I hold back. I know why. It's the same reason I still call myself a jinn, even though the only thing I ever shared with them was a two thousand year old curse.

  Syd and I both want to belong somewhere. Unfortunately, our blood never intended for that place to be together. Not like this.

  She was meant to rule, and I was meant to obey. I still can't shake the feeling I'm not giving her what she wants. I don't know what it is but, deep down, I do know one thing: she regrets letting me out of the bond.

  When I first started breaking into houses, I was surprised to learn what nonsense people assumed actually kept them safe. A big dog can be subdued. An alarm system is useless if not engaged. And bars on the window don't help much if the house is hidden away on ten acres of land.

  It's been eight years, and nothing much has changed.

  The GPS shows I'm near the target house, so I park before I reach it. Open land with scattered shrubs expands in every direction. The nearest neighbor has to be at least a mile away.

  That works for me.

  I step out of the car and round to the trunk. My haul from the hardware store is waiting for me. I grab the bags, slam the trunk shut, and lock up.

  With my luck, some jerkward would happen by the car while I'm preoccupied and decide to take it for a spin. Then I would feel obligated to track him down and slam his face into a telephone pole.

  I trudge to the house. It's two stories, sprawling, and even less impressive in real life. I guess I expected more from this famed part of the country, but the house could easily be in Arizona or Nevada. Nothing Californian about it. The owner is rich, but at no risk of the paparazzi showing up.

  There are no vehicles. All of the lights are off. The shed is locked up. Looks like the place is abandoned, as Lyle said it would be.

  Extension cord in hand, I check the exterior of the house for an outlet. There's one within reach of a window, so I plug in the cord, attach the Dremel, and set to work notching the bolts in the burglar bars. That's the second loudest part of this gig.

  When that's finished, I turn off the Dremel and go to town on the bolts using a pair of pliers, a few screwdrivers, and plenty of lubricant. It's not an easy task. It's definitely not a fun task. But it's a surprisingly doable task.

  By the time I get the bolts out partway, my wrist is sore and my knuckles are scraped. I trade my tools for the hacksaw. It's a deceptive little bastard. Doesn't look like it would be able to cut the end off a bolt, but it can. I prove it over and over.

  The last bolt head falls onto the ground. I drop the hacksaw next to the other tools, then lift the metal cage right off the window and set it against the wall. Now that the window is free, I grab the crowbar, take a step back, and swing like I'm Hank Aaron.

  The window shatters.

  That is the first loudest part of this gig.

  I swing a few more times to clear away most of the shards. Then I climb over the sill, glass poking at my palms, and land on the other side.

  I'm in a dimly lit living room. An eerie glow illuminates to my left. I turn to it.

  Sitting on the far side of the room is an aquarium spanning from floor to ceiling. Fish at least as long as my forearm glide around the rocks and plants.

  I use the glow to make out the shadows of the room. To my right is a sideboard with a white teapot, shaped like a camel. Surrounding it in a half circle are red drinking glasses trimmed in gold. Ahead of me is wraparound sectional couch.

  I make my way across the room and stop inches from the aquarium. A gray speckled fish comes over. I think it can see me.

  I put my hand level to its face and drag my fingers across the glass. The fish follows.

  “Roll over,” I say, gesturing a circle.

  The fish makes a few puffing motions with it mouth, then swims away.

  Worth a try.

  I hunch down to examine the creature lying on the bottom. It's one of those suckerfish that look like they have been steamrolled. This one is big enough I would have to hold it with both hands.

  When I go back to Italy, I'm getting a fish tank. Zoe would dig it. She likes weird things—not too unlike her sister.

  The sucker fish darts across the tank. I jump back. Something rattles behind me.

  I turn to see the front door knob wiggling. My gaze darts to the broken window. It's directly in front of the door. Too risky.

  My eye catches a closet to my left. I bound to it and slip inside.

  There's a click, and then light streams through the slats of the folding track door. I can't see out though. Heavy footsteps fall against the carpet, then halt. The owner must have noticed the broken window, and is probably going to call the police in the next ten seconds.

  Abort mission.

  That's easier said than done. I'm crowded in a closet with a vacuum, and a plastic coat hanger keeps bopping me in the back of the head. If I really was MacGyver, I could make this work. I'm not, so my only chance is to run.

  I crack open the door and peer out.

  A man dressed in motorcycle gear—jacket, gloves, and helmet—is standing by the front door, checking his phone. His other hand is gripping a black backpack. With an irritated sigh, he glances up at the window then stomps over to sideboard next to it.

  The busted out pane doesn't faze him at all. Instead, he removes his helmet and places it on the floor, revealing long blond hair and stubble. I don't recognize him.

  He opens a door in the sideboard, bends down and pulls out a laptop, then slides it into his backpack. A breeze strolls in through the broken window, flittering through his hair. He grabs his helmet and heads for the door.

  With my laptop.

  Goddammit.

  I can't let him leave, but what am I supposed to do? I don't have the space or angle to pop a bullet into his knee.

  So I barge out of the closet and rush him. He turns, not nearly as surprised as he should be. Just about the time I collide into him, I notice the drop holster on his thigh.

  We crash to the ground and skid. The helmet tumbles across the floor. He grunts and throws an elbow. I roll off him, out of the way. He tries to stand. I slam the bottom of my foot into his jaw. His head jerks back.

  I leap to my feet. He pushes up and swings at my face, leaning into it, and connects. My skull feels like it might collapse.

  I see darkness. My back hits the wall. I start swinging. I'm not so worried about landing punches but just keeping him away. I have to grab that bag and get the frick out of here.

  He moves toward me. I put my arm up to block him. He reaches behind me. I look up, my hair in my face.

  He's stabbing buttons on a box on the wall. I drop down and slam my fist into his gut.

  Cheap shot. Don'
t care.

  He staggers back a few steps. I catch sight of the backpack on the floor and lunge for it. He scurries right after me. We both latch onto the same strap.

  I let go and ram my elbow into the bridge of his nose. His hold tightens on the backpack. I try to yank it from him anyway. He lets go, and I bump into the wall.

  He wipes blood from his nose and slings it to the carpet as he storms across the room—away from me. I cock my head, backpack still in my grasp, trying to figure out what just happened.

  He unlocks the back door, pulls it open, unlocks the security door, and disappears outside. The security door swings shut with a bang. I jump.

  No way he gave in that easily. He's up to something. I probably don't want to hang around.

  I shoulder the bag and head for the broken window, patting my pockets. My heart stalls. My feet follow. I check my pockets again.

  My keys are gone.

  My car keys. . .are gone.

  The chant in my head makes it way to my lips.

  My gaze skims over the carpet. Nothing. I raise my head to the closet door. The keys had to have fallen out in there. I drop the backpack near the aquarium and jog over to the closet.

  The security door slams behind me. I spin around.

  The man stomps through the room, wielding a sledgehammer that would impress Gallagher. My gaze follows his path.

  He heads for the backpack. I dive after it. He swings the sledgehammer across the air above me. I grab the backpack, crouched down, and scan my options. He's in the way of all of my exits.

  The back of my head hits to the floor as my teeth bash together. I open my eyes. I'm sprawled face up, over the backpack. The undeniable dribble of blood gathers in the back of my mouth.

  The bastard kicked me in the face.

  He swings the sledgehammer across the air again. Something crunches.

  A boom sounds above me. I grab the bag and scuttle out of the way as a few thousand gallons of water explodes to the floor. He drops the sledgehammer, water rushing past his calves. I shoulder the bag. He bounds through the pool. I step back and kick low, into his knees. His leg jars, then his foot slips. He falls with a solid splash.

  My cue to amscray. I take off through the living room, sloshing with each step, and hurdle over the couch. Water splashes behind me as he struggles to his feet. I grab the camel teapot off the sideboard, make a sharp turn, and barrel past him out the back door.