Creature of Habit (Creature of Habit #1) (9 page)

Chapter 16

Grant

The word, no,
idea
brought about a range of tensions that coursed between Elijah and me like a rubber ball. I had no idea what to do with
feelings
like that.

He continued working, glancing down occasionally at the monitors, updating the system like I'd asked him to. I was across the room, as far away as possible, as though that made it less likely for him to read me.

The minutes ticked by and he finally spoke. "Grant, it's not a big deal. Well, it is a big deal, but not the way you're thinking. I mean you like her. She's cute and for some strange reason not afraid of you," he said, breaking out into a huge grin. "This makes her either the coolest girl you've ever met or the dumbest. I'm not sure which." He glanced down again at the monitors and I could see her reflected in his eyes, spraying down the furniture and cleaning up the mess she had made on the patio.

My shirt hung over her shoulders and her jaw was set. There was a look of something, determination, possibly, in her eyes. I wasn't sure. Again, the fact I couldn't read her well was disturbing. I mean, really disturbing. This situation opened up a whole other equation I'd never considered. Lust? I rubbed my hands back and forth across the top of my legs, trying to squelch the feelings bubbling from inside my chest.

Although I was confused, I was utterly intrigued. In all my years I truly had never experienced pure lust. Not like this.

Desire was something all creatures experienced. We experienced even more than others, it usually manifested into blood-lust rather than sexual craving. Love wasn’t out of the question—Olivia and Eli proved that, but even so, after more than a hundred years that particular feeling had eluded me.

Sex? That was a different matter.  I had experience, although always with my own kind. Relationships with humans were strictly forbidden by the Council—as they should be. Humans were too pliable. Too easily manipulated. We’re genetically superior.  We were also, as a species, in hiding. Revealing ourselves and leaving survivors was considered a crime in our society. Beyond that, having actual feelings for a human was incomprehensible.

To be fair, on one level as far as I was concerned, Amelia was different. She was obstinate. Frustratingly independent. I had not been able to manipulate or compel her to do anything. She rebelled against me—only drawing the line at appearing unprofessional. I seemed to have no upper hand with her at all.

Through the reflection in Elijah's eyes, I watched her complete her work outside and return to the house. She meticulously placed the cleaning supplies in the cabinet before she fell out of camera range in the bathroom.

Staring down at my knees, I finally broke.  “She doesn’t react to my commands,” I said, barely above a whisper. He heard me of course.

There was a tinge of a smirk on his face. “So she’s immune to your compulsion?”

"It appears so."

“Woah.” He lifted his brow, and stretched back in his seat, placing his hands behind his head. He was clearly enjoying my discomfort. “How does the Great Grant Palmer handle not being able to control everyone around you?”

“I don’t try to control everyone.”

He snorted.  “You’ve got the hots for this girl, yet you can't penetrate her free-will. And it seems,” his eyes flick to the monitor, “that she hates you. The others will find this very interesting.”

I glared at him. "Yes. It's fascinating. Tell me then, what does she think about me right now? Does she…smell interested?"

He ignored my sarcasm, strong willed and powerful. "Uh, not exactly. She’s definitely not giving off the same triggers you are, my friend.”

“Elijah, so help me, I will tear you limb from limb. Tell me what’s going on behind…all that.”

His lips tugged at the corners, even though he was about to break. He could only hold off on my demand for so long.

"So what's really going on here…is you like a girl,” he taunted. "Grant likes a girl…"

In an instant I was up and over the desk, throwing my weight against him. I pinned him and the chair against the wall. "Tell me, you idiot. What. Is. She. Feeling?" I was going to kill him.

He pushed me off, his foot firmly placed against my chest, and I flew backwards across the room. I arched over the desk and landed on my own chair, shattering the wood under my weight. I leapt to my feet, tangled in splinters of wood and leather ready to rain down on him, but Eli was in front of me already, hands on his hips and a huge grin on his face.

"Man, I'm impressed. You cleared the desk. I was sure you were going to take out the computer,” he laughed, picking up the leg of the chair and flipping it in his hands.

I stared hard at him for a moment—two beats—before I shook my head and laughed. "I know. I wasn't sure if I could make it, either. At the last second I twisted a little."

I walked across the room to get a trash can. We bent down to clean up the pieces of pulverized leather and wood scattered across the floor. Together we cleaned up the mess and put all of the debris in the bin. Elijah, apparently done tormenting me for the day, finally gave me what I'd asked for.

“She's pissed, Grant. Like really, really, pissed. Her body is releasing chemicals and the rate of her pulse suggests she’s in an unpredictable range from bitterness to rage. Oh, and I'm picking up on a little bit of smugness since she ruined your shirt and she knew it would make you mad. Despite what Olivia thinks, I’m betting that she’ll definitely quit. She’s 100% done with you.”

I nodded. Her anger was for the best, even though I wasn't sure it was what I wanted anymore. Since when did I get what I wanted, anyway? And this? Whatever this was fell into a realm of impossibility. My life had been about sacrifice and discipline, especially the last couple of decades. Amelia Chase was simply another sacrifice I had to make.

Chapter 17

Amelia

I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw a sweaty, red-faced mess. I took a finger and rubbed at a swipe of dirt smudged across my face. All that did was make a darker red mark on my already red skin. Wisps of hair stuck to my cheeks and neck. I tried to tidy up but that only made it worse. Shifting my gaze downward, I saw the full destruction of Mr. Palmer’s shirt. The fabric was splotchy with bleach and smeared with grime.

Good.

I didn't feel bad.

The controlling bastard deserved it.

I had two hours left before the end of the day, but I was done. My plan was to leave Mr. Palmer my pre-written letter of resignation on my desk where he could find it when he came by for my daily report.

Daily report: I QUIT.

The thought of leaving that note and the look of confusion on his perfectly featured face made me smile for the first time all day. Sure, I could walk away without leaving the note, but I had a tiny scrap of professional dignity remaining. Barefoot and dirty, I left the bathroom like a hillbilly and walked to my desk, placing the letter on the corner where he would definitely see it.

I had my bag and my shoes and I needed to stop in the kitchen to remove my food and other items. I wanted to leave Mr. Palmer's home the way I found it and remove every trace of my presence. So that I would be nothing more than a blip in his life. Two weeks of disturbance in his routine and stagnant existence. Maybe next time he’d hire a robot instead.

I had my head in the refrigerator when, to my absolute horror, I heard feet on the back stairs. Crap. There went my scrap of dignity.

Mr. Palmer stood at the bottom of the steps and I noticed his hands were full of trash. I saw a tall, lanky man standing behind him carrying an arm load of what appeared to be parts of a chair. Mr. Palmer wore the normal, pained grimace on his face that I'd come to expect.

We stood for a moment in silence while his eyes traveled down my body, taking in his T-shirt and my disheveled appearance. I held my breath for a moment waiting for his reaction. The absurdity of my behavior crashed down on me. I felt like a child. A child who desecrated something very important to the bastard in front of me.

Okay, my guilt didn’t last long.

Oh, also? The fact he was overwhelmingly gorgeous when he was mad only made the situation worse. Or better? I had no idea. I lost all sense of rationality when I saw the tense lines of his jaw and the spark of fire in his violet eyes.

I felt the heat rush to my face as I realized he could call the police and have me escorted off the property or arrested. Maybe I hadn't thought this all the way through.

I heard a stifled cough from behind Mr. Palmer. The other man leaned around Mr. Palmer and I saw that he, too, was incredibly handsome. The hint of amusement in his eyes was not lost on me.

Perfect timing to grow a backbone, Amelia.

Cutting our awkward standoff short, Mr. Palmer walked past me out the garage door without a word. The other man followed but gave me a wide smile and nod of encouragement, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I let out a deep, rattling breath, realizing at that moment, I'd been holding it for some time.

“Nice knowing you, jackass,” I said, to the empty room, before escaping out the front door.

~*~

Figuring I had nothing else to lose, I decided to cap off my epically fail day by going on my date with Thomas.  It wasn’t the worst idea, except for the fact I couldn’t shake the bad feelings from earlier today plus, for some crazy reason I decided to wear heels. Why did I wear heels? God, they’re uncomfortable.

I swallowed the last of my drink and peered into the bottom of the glass hoping a refill would magically appear.

Where was that waitress?

“Superman or Captain America?” Thomas asked the table. They’d been playing ‘Superhero vs. Superhero’ for an hour.

I glanced around the room for the waitress. She’d vanished. Like the contents of my drink.

I slumped back in my seat, dreaming of my couch and comfy clothes. Although my fingers still smelled like bleach, I'd had to scrub to rid myself of the filth that covered my entire body. I was hoping it would remove some of the horror and humiliation I'd experienced as well, but sadly, soap didn't fix shame.

My bad mood lingered as I sat between Drew and Thomas and pretended to be interested in their conversation. I'd never quit a job before and left on bad terms. I felt terrible ruining Mr. Palmer's shirt. Sure, he was an ass, but it was immature and I was embarrassed by my behavior.

Fucking hindsight.

I fingered the paper coasters on the table and pretended to listen to Thomas and his friend, Jess, argue the pros and cons of superheroes.

“Superman can fly. It always comes down to that,” Thomas said.

“Captain America is a Captain. Like, he’s the boss of all the Avengers. Even Nick Fury defers to him.”

They rambled on and I groaned internally and searched the table for a sharp object to gouge my eyes out with, but came up empty.

What I did see was Drew making sex eyes at Jess and pretending this was the most fascinating conversation ever, which I knew for a fact, it wasn't. He raised an eyebrow in my direction, motioning with his mouth for me to smile. I rolled my eyes at Drew but plastered a grin on my face and returned my attention to Thomas.

I knew I wasn't being fair. It wasn't his fault my boss was a douche. I appraised Thomas, noticing how he looked nice in a blue shirt that matched his tan complexion. He really was cute and nice. The problem was, he was a bit boring. At the moment he was animatedly informing Jess of the virtues of Superman. “Superman has super strength and heat vision. He’s an alien—the perfect representation of immigration to this country.”

I watched with mild interest as Jess took a deep breath and said, “That’s the whole point. Superman is an alien—he was born with super powers. Steve Rogers was a normal man—a weak man, who dreamed of being so much more. Look what happened when Red Skull underwent the same Gamma Ray transformation. He became evil. Steve became a hero. He had that moral compass inside him all along. Plus, he jumps out of planes without a parachute, which is like flying but even more badass.”

Jess leaned back in his seat and took a long, smug, pull from his beer. He and Thomas eyed one another trying to determine where to take this next. I had to admit, I was impressed. Not so much from this conversation, but from the fact people actually knew this much random information about something I cared so little about.

“What do you think, Amelia?” Thomas asked.

“Me? Um…” I glanced at Drew who was fighting off laughter. This wasn’t really my game, but no one likes a party-pooper so I gave it a shot. “Which is the one with all the muscles?”

Jess frowned. “All of them?”

“Has a hammer?”

“Thor,” Thomas said, looking a little disappointed I didn’t know the difference. “He’s a demi-god. That’s a whole other competition.”

“Ah, okay,” I said but offered a weak smile. “Sorry I’m being a drag. I quit my job today and didn’t leave on good terms.”

“You quit?” Thomas asked. “Wow, not sure I can blame you. Palmer is a pretty terrifying boss. I’m not sure I would have lasted as long as you did.”

“Palmer?” Jess asked.

“Yeah, Amelia works—well worked—for Grant Palmer, that totally rich guy I told you about. That’s how we met. He gives me the creeps but holy cow, he pays well. So well I need to shut my mouth.”

“Gives you the creeps how?” Jess said, not ready to change the topic.

Thomas wasn’t saying anything else and I didn’t blame him. Mr. Palmer was a good customer. Me? I was in the clear. Zero loyalty to that jerk. “Like he creeps around and has all these freaky OCD habits. Like super extreme. He’s rich and hot and I think he’s just gotten his way his entire life. Spoiled rich guy, that’s all.”

Jess’ eyes narrowed in concentration before asking, “Is he more like Tyler Durden or Patrick Bateman?”

Oh God, they tricked me into one of their games. One I did not want to play but tossed out, “He looks like Tyler Durden, but possibly may be Patrick Bateman.” Who knew what he kept upstairs in those locked rooms. Or what his abs looked like under that crisp shirt.

The waitress came over and took our order for another round of beer, and then Thomas introduced the next topic of who would win a death match, Hawkeye vs. Green Arrow. I excused myself to the restroom.

At the sink I pulled out my hair brush and was attempting to stick strands of hair back in the ponytail when a woman next to me washing her hands said, "Wow, your perfume is amazing, what kind is it?"

I laughed and said, "Oh, I don't wear perfume. It gives me a headache. It must be someone else."

In the mirror I watched as she smiled and ran her fingers through her short, dark hair. Her skin was pale. Flawless. Completely smooth. She had on large, 70s style, rose tinted glasses. I admired her tight dress and ridiculously high heels. How does someone even walk around like that and not break their neck?

Unscrewing the cap to my lip gloss I said, "I love your glasses, I could never pull off something so dramatic."

She flashed me an ultra-white smile. "Thanks. I have sensitive eyes so I wear them all the time.”

“Well, they work for you.”

The girl ran a hand through her hair, tugging at several spiky pieces on top. “So I saw you out there with that guy. Are you here on a date?"

I sat back against the sink. "Ugh, yes. I mean, he's cute and all, but boring. You would not believe the argument he and his friend have been having all night. And what is worse, my friend has hit it off with his friend so I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

She threw her head back and laughed the most charming, fantastic laugh. She was really beautiful; interesting-looking, like a model. "Yeah, sounds pretty tragic. Well, you come find me if you need an escape. My boyfriend is supposed to meet me later but he tends to be a little unreliable."

I put my brush and make up away and followed her to the door. Stopping just before pushing the door open to the thumping beat of the outside music she turned and said, "By the way, my name is Sasha."