Demon's Plaything Read online

  “No problem. The pleasure was all mine. Really.”

  His eyes flashed with his words, and Shayla, usually immune to sweet words and blatant come-ons, well, in most cases anyway, believed him and tried to ignore the rush of excitement and interest that his words sent coursing through her.

  “Well, uh, have a great evening, Mr.…?”

  “Demon,” he supplied as her voice trailed off. “Just Demon.”

  She wanted to laugh, she really did, but another look into his beautiful eyes had the chuckle dying in her throat. His undeniable attractiveness, the hot, magnetic pull she felt toward him made laughter impossible. It even made it hard for her to judge his garish tie and less than flattering tan suit. Seemed that beauty could cover a multitude of sins.

  Too bad he was here. Shayla had few hang-ups about her sexuality, and if she’d run into this god of a man anywhere else, she’d have had no qualms about getting to know him better. But, alas, his presence here probably meant he was into whatever Ian was into, and that awareness threw a bucket of cold water over her desire.

  “Good night,” she said.

  “See you around,” he responded.

  “Hope not,” she said without missing a beat, to which he laughed.

  As she walked away, she felt his gaze boring into her back, felt that prickling awareness of arousal spark again, so she sped up. Ian would just have to find her later. Confused as she was about what Ian wanted and as scared as she was about the consequences, she couldn’t afford to add lust to the mix, especially not for a man who was probably up to no good.

  She reminded herself of that as she drove home, but images of “Demon” and the memory of his alluring scent stayed plastered on her brain.

  Chapter Three

  Two days later, Demon was still present in her thoughts, and he’d been the featured attraction in her fantasies. Memories of his amazing voice, his scent, his body, and thoughts of what she would have done to him had they met under different circumstances played in her mind. She hadn’t felt that powerful of an attraction to anyone in long time, maybe ever.

  It was a damn shame that she hadn’t run into him somewhere—anywhere—else. Not that it mattered, though; she would never see him again.

  Still, thoughts of the outrageously handsome, ridiculously named stranger were far preferable to other memories of the evening. Shayla still hadn’t quite processed it. She was no shrinking violet, couldn’t be to work in an ER, but there was something profoundly troubling about the event. People hurt each other; it was a fact of life. But the joy she’d seen on people’s faces as they’d watched… She shook her head to try to clear the memory.

  And then there was Ian. He’d been the picture-perfect brother and grandson, calling her just to chat, visiting Nana, asking about her health. It should have been comforting, but instead his behavior had her edgy, nervous, and a sneaking suspicion about what he wanted had been brewing over the days since the event. Ian still hadn’t explained, but it didn’t matter. He’d have to get out of whatever mess he was in by himself. She’d tell him so tonight. They were getting together for dinner, a chance to catch up away from grand-maternal oversight he said, so she’d get more information and set him straight.

  Today was her day off, so she’d made chicken parm. She usually made several batches so she’d have easily accessible meals after a shift, so she’d spent most of the day in the kitchen. Around six thirty, a knock at the door stated Ian had arrived. She rushed over quickly and opened the door, the late-model, higher-end sedan parked next to her car drawing her attention.

  “Hey. New car?” she asked as she reached up to hug him.

  “Hey. Just a little something I’m test driving, short stuff,” he responded with a smile.

  She laughed. “I told you, I’m of perfectly average height, Ian.”

  “Not next to me,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six three. “And besides, you tormented me for years about my height, so now payback is mine.”

  “It’s not my fault you didn’t hit your growth spurt until you were a sophomore.”

  “True, but that doesn’t make finally being taller than you any less fun.”

  They both chuckled as they walked into the kitchen, and Shayla remembered well how her short, pudgy brother had turned into a full-grown man practically overnight. He’d had great fun turning the tables on her, and she couldn’t remember how many arguments Nana had broken up because he’d hidden something where she couldn’t reach it or had taken her things and stood on his tiptoes, arms extended almost to the ceiling in his new favorite game, keep-away.

  “Chicken parm tonight,” she said when they entered the kitchen.

  “Awesome. And look what I brought.”

  He pulled out a deck of unopened cards.

  “Hells yeah! Let’s hurry up and eat so we can play.”

  Ian washed his hands and threw some tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots into the bowl of lettuce she’d left on the counter. She pulled out the garlic bread that had been warming in the oven and sliced it while Ian set the table. After sitting down to eat, they chitchatted about work and his new girlfriend, who’d held that title for three consecutive weeks, a new record for Ian, and then Nana came up.

  “She didn’t look so good, Shay,” Ian said, his voice as weary as she felt.

  “No, she didn’t, did she?”

  Shayla sighed and put down her fork. Ian usually tried to put a positive spin on any situation—“Always look for the upside,” he’d say—and for him to make such a blanket statement only proved that Nana’s condition was worsening.

  “Is it as bad as it seems?” he asked.

  Shayla weighed her words, but finally decided on the truth. “Yes.”

  He looked taken aback. After his last “hiccup,” when he’d convinced Nana to use the house as collateral for a loan—a loan that Shayla was still paying every month—Ian had been scarce, whether out of genuine shame or as a way to punish Shayla by depriving Nana, she hadn’t decided, so he hadn’t seen the extent of Nana’s decline. And it had to be shocking, even to someone who could be as self-centered as Ian.

  “So what’s the plan?” he finally said.

  Shayla shrugged. “I’m not sure. She has an appointment with the pulmonologist next week, but she’s adamant that she go alone.”

  “Well, we’re ignoring that. When and what time?”

  The vehemence from the usually easygoing Ian heartened her. He had his issues, and she had hers, and they certainly had their grievances against one another, but she couldn’t pretend it didn’t feel good to have him here, couldn’t pretend that she didn’t hope that, for one of the very few times since they’d become adults, they could be united, if only in their love of their grandmother.

  “I think we should give her space.”

  “Space? What does that mean?”

  “We love her and we want the best for her, and she knows that. At least she should, but anyway, she still deserves her privacy, and the worst thing we could do is make her feel out of control.”

  He snorted, face lightening with his mirth. “Yeah, Ethel don’t look kindly on bossing.”

  “My daddy has been dead for sixty years, and he didn’t tell me what to do either,” they said in unison and then burst into laughter.

  “Point taken,” Ian said after their laughter subsided.

  Shayla said, “I’m not sure why she wants to go alone all of a sudden, but I think she’ll come around. We could have lunch or coffee or something after and see where things stand.”

  “Cool. And if she stays her wonderful, stubborn self, who plays good cop?”

  “As if that’s a question. You know you hang the moon, baby boy,” she said, stealing one of Nana’s favorite pet names for him.

  “It doesn’t feel that way,” he said as he finished his last bite of pasta. “Not when I’m constantly reminded of how successful my sister, the doctor, is and how my life would be so much better if I were more like her.”

 
The rough, abrupt shift and his harsh, bitter voice chilled her and made her stomach lurch. Ian had made similar comments before, occasionally complaining that Nana’s, and to some extent her own, expectations were bothersome, but he was rarely this direct. The transition from his undeniable concern about Nana to this angry other side of him was jarring.

  “You know she loves you, Ian,” she said on a commiserating sigh.

  “I know. You love me, she loves me, everyone loves me,” he said mockingly as he stood and carried their plates to the sink. “But none of you respect me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Her words sounded timid and frail, unreassuring even to her own ears.

  “Huh.” He scoffed.

  “She does the same thing to me!” she said, voice now a bit shrill. “Goes on and on and on about how sweet you are and how I should be more friendly and outgoing like you.”

  “Yeah, Shay, but she doesn’t believe that you are fundamentally incapable of taking care of yourself.”

  Shayla didn’t have a response.

  “But anyway”—his face and voice transformed, and the brittle anger that had been in both smoothed away—“that’s going to change.”

  She raised a brow and quirked up a corner of her mouth, trying to be supportive but not quite able to squelch her skepticism, guilty as she felt about it. This resolution was just the latest in a string of many, many others that had come before it.

  “I’m serious,” he said as he dried his hands and joined her back at the table, placing the unopened deck of cards between them.

  “I’m listening,” she said as she opened the cards, reveling in the feel of the stiff, plastic-coated paper in her hands.

  She cut the deck and shuffled, waiting for Ian to begin.

  “You know, you would have been amazing in Vegas.” Ian revived an old joke between them.

  “Don’t think I wasn’t tempted every day of my residency,” she responded, allowing the repetition of the action to soothe her.

  “So…” Ian began.

  Shayla kept shuffling.

  “I have a situation that could also be an opportunity…”

  She kept shuffling, wondering how a conversation about how no one respected him had shifted into a request for a favor, one that he knew she was unwilling to give but that he seemed to have no qualms about asking for anyway.

  “I have a…business arrangement”—Shayla couldn’t stop the unladylike snort that escaped her, but Ian soldiered on as if he hadn’t heard it—“with some people that’s gotten a little…unwieldy and having your help would be extremely beneficial.”

  She stopped shuffling, put down the cards.

  “Ian, what the fuck does that mean? That was just a series of words spewed in seemingly random order,” she said, exasperated.

  Wordiness was one of Ian’s tells. The more he said, the bigger the ask, the theory being that most people would be too worn out by the time he finished to think very hard about what he’d said. She’d loved the quality when they were kids, had relied on it to get out of trouble more than a few times. But she was paying for it now. She narrowed her eyes and looked over at him, that simmering unease that always rose when Ian needed “help” slithering up her spine.

  “Do you want the details, Shay?” he challenged.

  He held her gaze and a moment passed, then another, and she knew that Ian had yet again won, at least for the moment. It was weak, cowardly, but she didn’t want the details, knew that if she had them, she’d be powerless in the face of her desire, almost compulsion, to make sure Ian was okay.

  Take care of your brother.

  It had been ingrained in her since his birth, and thirty-three years later, the edict was a part of the very fiber of her being. And Ian knew it too, had used that knowledge to his advantage more times than she cared to remember. But she couldn’t fault him completely. Shayla well knew his manipulations, and how easily she bent to them, and she hadn’t yet gathered the will to resist them. That was all on her.

  “No,” she finally said quietly, Ian’s cue to continue, though she knew what was coming next.

  “Good. Well, you were at the event. I’m sure you saw the necessity for talented medical professionals to be available should the need arise.”

  “So you want me to work these…events.”

  It was a statement, not a question, and she felt her incredulity rising.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “Why don’t I think you’re kidding?”

  “Because I’m not.”

  She looked away, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Shay.” Ian’s imploring tone both grated her nerves and tugged at her heart, which made her disgusted with herself.

  “Ian, do you have any idea what you’re asking? That place gets raided and I go to jail, lose my license. I will end up dealing cards somewhere if I ever get out.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, an undercurrent of scorn tinting his voice. “And that’s not a concern.”

  “How is it not?”

  “Details, remember?” he shot back.

  “Ian…” she said, a warning edge creeping into her voice.

  “Shay, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t critical.”

  The little lilt in his voice, that perfect mix of pleading and desperation that was quintessentially Ian had her resolve crumbling. She looked at him again, the shine in his brown eyes reminding her of their father’s, and relented.

  “Fine,” she said on a deep breath, the weight of having sealed her own fate pressing down on her like a stone.

  ••••

  A few days later, Shayla said her good-byes, weary after a long shift and practically ravenous. And weighed down by the problems that continued to vex her. Ian hadn’t called since they’d last spoken, but she knew it was a matter of time. Agreeing to help him was stupid, reckless, and she hadn’t even been brave enough to find out why he needed her so badly. She suspected though, knew Ian had an uncanny knack for finding trouble—and troublemakers—but this time felt different, and she hadn’t figured out why.

  And on the other end of the spectrum was the little issue of that sinfully alluring, probably criminal man who wouldn’t leave her thoughts. All the complications she faced—Ian and Nana, not to mention her busy everyday life—and still in every spare moment, despite her most stringent efforts to prevent it, her thoughts drifted to Demon, constructed elaborate fantasies about meeting him in regular surroundings, getting to know him free from whatever craziness that might be swirling around them. A sigh escaped her. Wishing wouldn’t help, so she’d focus on problems she could fix. She thought about the diner she had to pass on the way home and decided why not? A strawberry shake and fries wouldn’t fix anything, and certainly wouldn’t help her hips, but they were just what the doctor ordered. She chuckled at her own stupid joke, the first real laugh she’d had in a while, and walked out to the parking lot, got into her car, and headed to her destination.

  The restaurant, which everyone referred to as “the Diner,” its official name apparently lost to history, was two metal single-wide trailers smushed together. The quarters were cramped, the fixtures probably thirty years out of date, but that was part of its appeal, at least to Shayla. Seasons, times, lives came and went, but the Diner was there through it all, an unchanging feature in the landscape. The place was almost full, understandable given that it was dinnertime, but she managed to snag a small booth in the back. A surly waitress—as steady as the Diner was, its staff shifted with regularity so Shayla never bothered to learn names—took her order immediately, and she was left to her thoughts. She considered reading her news feed, but decided against it. That would be way too depressing. Then she played that mindless game on her phone where she lined up matching fruit in a row, but she was distracted, bored, so that didn’t last long either. She finally decided she’d people watch, so while she waited for her food, she ripped her napkin into even-sized strips, a mindless habit that she’d
had since childhood and that Nana’s threats and Ian’s teasing had never managed to cure, and listened to the conversations around her.

  “I told you they’ll win the pennant this year,” a man in a red plaid shirt said to his companion as they both sipped half-full mugs of coffee.

  “We’ve been down this road, man. They have to show and prove before I believe it,” the companion, dressed in a blue plaid shirt that was identical except for its color, responded.

  Blue Plaid was right; the team had no shot, but Shayla appreciated Red Plaid’s optimism. The world could do with a bit more of that. Then she wondered if they’d dressed the same on purpose and smiled at the thought.

  “Must be something nice to make you smile like that. Care to share?”

  Shayla froze, instantly on the defensive and trying to ignore the way his deep, melodic voice washed over her, the way that, in a flash, her melancholy dropped away and her body jolted, her heartbeat spiking with excitement and arousal. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was. It was him, Demon. The man she’d noticed the instant she’d walked into that wretched place, the man who’d crossed her mind countless times, the man she wanted right now.

  She had to remember that this man was as bad as her brother, maybe worse.

  But even that knowledge couldn’t change her response to him or change the fact that he’d been burned into her mind, imprinted almost. Without looking at him, she could clearly envision his long, solid-looking limbs, his lean torso, the sparkle in his eye that went from teasing to serious to heated in milliseconds. Warmth suffused her as she imagined those eyes, but she refused to look up. Yes, she wanted him, but no, for a multitude of reasons that exhausted her just to think about, she could not have him. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d go away.

  A heartbeat passed, then another, and she felt a surge of relief. Which was promptly crushed as he settled across from her.

  “I don’t recall giving you permission to sit,” she snapped, using that firm, icy tone that tamed the most rambunctious visitors to the ER.

  “Good, because I don’t recall asking,” he said, the teasing in his voice making her look up at him finally.