Free Heat Stroke by Rachel Caine

this?”
    He pulled in a deep breath and let go of me. “Just do what I told you, and we’ll both be fine.”
    Â 
    There was a door at the end of the hall marked with a red EXIT sign. David stiff-armed it without slowing down, and I followed him into a sudden feeling of pressure, motion, intense cold, disorientation . . .
    . . . and somebody’s house. A nice house, actually, lots of wood, high ceilings, a kind of cabin-ish feel while still maintaining that urban cachet. Big, soaring raw stone fireplace, complete with wrought iron tools and a big stack of logs that looked fresh-chopped. The living room—which was where we were—was spacious, comfortable, full of overstuffed furniture in masculine shades. Paintings on the walls—astronomy, stars, planets. I caught my breath and braced myself with my hand on the back of a sofa.
    The place smelled of a strange combination of gun oil and aftershave, a peculiarly masculine kind of odor that comforted me in places that I hadn’t known were nervous.
    There was a clatter from what must have been the kitchen, down the hall and to the left, and a man came around the corner carrying three dark brown bottles of Killian’s Irish Red.
    â€œHey,” he said, and tossed one to David. Davidcaught it out of the air. “Sit your ass down. We’re gonna be here a while.”
    I stared. Couldn’t quite help it. I mean, with all the buildup, I’d been expecting a three-headed Satan breathing fire and picking his teeth with a human rib. This was just—a guy. Tall, lean, with a built-in grace that reminded me of animals that run for a living. He looked older—forty-five? fifty?—and his short hair was a kind of sandy brown, thickly salted with gray. An angular face, one that bypassed handsome for something far more interesting. Lived-in. Strong. Utterly self-assured.
    He was wearing a black T-shirt, khaki cargo pants, some kind of efficient-looking boots, maybe Doc Martens. He settled himself down in a sprawl on the couch, all arms and legs and attitude, and finally held out the other beer toward me. I leaned forward to take it, and his eyes flicked over and fixed on mine.
    I froze. Just . . . whited out. I thought nothing, felt nothing until the cold sweating bottle slapped my palm, and then I looked down and focused on it, blinking. I couldn’t have said what color his eyes were, but they were incredible. Dark. Intense. And very dangerous.
    David had eased himself down to a sitting position on the edge of a brown sofa with worn spots on the arms. He held the beer between his palms, rolling the bottle slowly back and forth, and now he glanced at me and I saw something unsettling in his eyes.
    It might have been fear.
    â€œJonathan,” David said.
    â€œDavid. Glad we’re still on a first-name basis,” Jonathan replied, with a half-inch nod that conveyednothing. His eyes flicked to me, then away, so brief you couldn’t even call it a look. “You. Sit your ass down.”
    I did, feeling gawkish and stupid and so much like an intruder it stung. There was something between these two; it was so powerful that it warped space around them, tingled in my skin like electric shock. Love? Hate? Bitterness? Maybe it was all that. Certainly it wasn’t a passing acquaintance. It had the ancient feel of something long-term and deep as the ocean.
    Jonathan took a swig of beer. “Well, she’s pretty,” he said to David, and jerked his head at me. “You always did like the dark-haired ones.”
    David raised his eyebrows. “Is this the part where you try to embarrass me in front of her?”
    â€œEnjoy it. This is as fun as it’s likely to get.”
    The fire popped like a gunshot. Neither of them flinched. They were locked into a staring contest. David finally said, “Okay. I’m only here as a courtesy. Tell me what was important enough to send Rahel around