The Sign of Seven Trilogy (39 page)

“Did it work?”

He only smiled, and slid a plate into its cabinet. “Then a couple weeks before we turned seventeen, things started happening again. I knew—we knew—it wasn't finished after all. It came home to me that what I had wasn't something to play around with. I stopped.”

“Mostly?”

“Almost entirely. It's there, Layla, it's part of us. I can't control the fact that I might get a sense from someone. I can control pushing in, pulling out more.”

“That's what I have to learn.”

“And you may have to learn to push. If it comes down to someone's privacy or their life, or the lives of others, you have to push in.”

“But how do you know when—when, if, who?”

“We'll work on it.”

“I'm not relaxed around you, most of the time.”

“I've noticed. Why is that?”

She turned away to get more dishes, then slid a bowl into the sink. The little boy had gone inside, she noted. In to eat dinner. His dog curled on the porch by the back door and slept off playtime.

“Because I'm aware you can, or could, sense what I think or feel. Or I worry that you can, so it makes me nervous. But you don't, because you hold back, or because I'm nervous enough to stop you. Maybe both. You didn't know what I was thinking, or feeling earlier today when you kissed me.”

“My circuits were crossed at the time.”

“We're attracted to each other. Would that be an accurate reading?”

“It's dead-on from my end.”

“And that makes me nervous. It's also confusing, because I don't know how much we're picking up from each other, how much is just basic chemistry.” Layla rinsed the bowl, passed it to Fox. “I don't know if this is something we should be dealing with, with everything else we have to worry about.”

“Let's back up, just a little. Are you nervous because I'm attracted to you, or because we're attracted to each other?”

“Door number two, and I don't have to see inside your head when I can see by your face you like that idea.”

“Best damn idea I've heard in weeks. Possibly years.”

She planted a wet, soapy hand on his shirt as he started to lean in. “I can't relax if I'm thinking about going to bed with you. The idea of sex generally stirs me up.”

“We could relax later. In fact, I can guarantee we'll be a lot more relaxed later if we finish the stirring-up part first.”

She not only left her hand planted, but nudged him a full step back with it. “No doubt. But I compartmentalize things. It's how I'm built, it's how I work. This, between us, I have to put it in another compartment for a while. I have to think about it, worry about it, wonder about it. If I'm going to learn from you, if I'm going to help end what wants to end us, I need to focus on that.”

His expression sober and attentive, he nodded. “I like to juggle.”

“I know.”

“And I like to negotiate. And.” He dried her hand, then brought it to his lips. “I know when to let the opposing party consider all the options. I want you. Naked. In bed, in a room filled with shadows and quiet music. I want to feel your heart pound against my hand while I do things to you. So put that in your compartment, Layla.”

He tossed aside his dishcloth as she stared at him. “I'm going to go get your wine. It should help you relax some before we get to work.”

She was still staring when he strolled out. She managed to press a hand to her heart, and yes, it was pounding.

Obviously, she had a lot to learn if he'd had that in him and she hadn't sensed it.

It was going to take more than a glass of red wine to help her relax now.

SHE DRANK THE WINE; HE CLEARED OFF THE kitchen table. Then he poured her another glass. She didn't say a word, and he gave her room for silence, room for her thoughts until he sat.

“Okay, do you know how to meditate?”

“I know the concept.” There was a thin edge of irritation in her tone. He didn't mind it.

“You ought to sit down so we can get started. The thing about meditating,” he began when she joined him, “is most people can't really reach that level where they turn their minds off, where there's not something in there about work or their dentist appointment, the ache in their lower back. Whatever. But we can get close. Yoga breathing, using the breath. Closing your eyes, picturing a blank white wall—”

“And chanting ‘ummm.' How is that going to help me tap in to this thing? I can't walk around in a meditative state.”

“It's to help clear yourself out after. To help you—I sound like my mother—cleanse your mind, your aura, balance your chi.”

“Please.”

“It's a process, Layla. So far, you've only skimmed the surface of it, or dipped your toe in. The deeper you go, the more it takes out of you.”

“Such as?”

“Too deep for too long? Headaches, nausea, nosebleeds. It can hurt. It can drain you.”

She frowned, then ran her finger down the bowl of her glass. “When we were in the attic of the old library, Quinn had a flashback to Ann Hawkins. And she came out of it pretty shaken up. Severe headache, queasy, clammy.” Layla puffed out her cheeks. “All right. I'm crappy at meditating. When we end with the corpse position in yoga class, I'm relaxed, but I'm going to be thinking of what I'm doing next, or if I should buy this great leather jacket that came in. I'll practice. I can practice with Cybil.”

Because she's safer than I am, Fox thought, and let that go. “All right, let's just skim along the surface for right now. Relax, clear the clutter out of the front of your mind. Like when you were doing the dishes.”

“It's harder when it's deliberate. Things want to pop in.”

“That's right. So compartmentalize,” he suggested with an easy smile. “Put them in their slot. Tuck them away. Look at me.” His hand moved to rest on hers. “Just look at me. Focus on me. You know me.”

She felt a little strange, as if the wine had gone straight to her head. “I don't understand you.”

“That'll come. Look at me. It's like opening a door. Turn the knob, Layla. Put your hand on the knob and turn it, ease the door open, just a couple inches. Look at me. What am I thinking?”

“You hope I don't eat all the pot stickers.” She
felt
his humor, like a warm blue light. “You did that.”

“We did that. Stay at the door. Stay focused. Open it just a little wider and tell me what I'm feeling.”

“I . . . calm. You're so calm. I don't know how you manage it. I don't think I'm ever that calm, and now, with what's happened, what's happening, I don't know if I'll ever be really calm again. And . . . You're a little hungry.”

“I pretended to eat most of an eggplant salad at lunch. Which is why I ordered . . .”

“Kung Pao beef, snow peas, cold noodles, a dozen egg rolls, pot stickers. A
dozen
egg rolls?”

“If there are any leftovers, they're good for breakfast.”

“That's disgusting. And now you're thinking I'd be good for breakfast,” she added and drew her hand from under his.

“Sorry, that slipped through. Doing okay?”

“A little light-headed, a lot dazed, but yeah, okay. It's going to be easier with you though, isn't it? Because you know how to work it. Work me.”

Picking up his neglected beer, he tipped back in his chair. “A woman comes into the shop you managed in New York. She's just browsing around. How do you know where to direct her, how to work her?”

“Satisfy her,” Layla corrected, “not work her. Some of it would be the way she looks—her age, how she's dressed, what kind of bag, what kind of shoes. Those are surface things, and can lead in the wrong direction, but they're a start. And I grew up in the business, so I have a sense of customer types.”

“But I'm betting nine times out of ten you knew when to get the flashy leather purse out of the stockroom or steer her toward the conservative black one. If she said she wanted a business suit, but really had a yen for a sexy little dress and fuck-me shoes.”

“I had a lot of experience reading . . . Yes.” She let out a hiss of breath, the annoyance self-directed. “I don't know why I keep resisting it. Yes, I'd often tune in. The owner called it my magic touch. I guess she wasn't far off.”

“How did you do it?”

“If I'm assisting a customer, I'm, well, I'm focused on them, on what they want, what they like—and yeah, what I can sell them. You have to listen to what they say, and there's body language, and also my own sense of what would look great on them. And sometimes, I always thought it was instinct, I'd get a picture in my head of the dress or the shoes. I'd think it was reading between the lines of what they said when I chatted them up, but I might hear this little voice. Maybe it was their thoughts. I'm not sure.”

She was easing into it, he thought, into acceptance of what she held inside her. “You were confident in what you were doing, sure of your ground, which is another kind of relaxation. And you cared. You wanted to get them what they really wanted or would work for them, make them happy. And make a sale. Right?”

“I guess so.”

“Same program, different channel.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out change. Cupping his palm away from her, he counted it out. “How much am I holding?”

“I—”

“The amount's in my head. Open the door.”

“God. Wait.” She took another sip of wine first. Too much running through her own head, Layla realized. Put it away. “Don't help me!” she snapped when he reached for her hand. “Just . . . don't.”

Put it away, she repeated to herself. Clean it out. Relax. Focus. Why did he think she could do this? Why was he so sure? Why did so many men have such wonderful eyelashes? Oops. No side trips. She closed her eyes, visualized the door. “A dollar thirty-eight.” Her eyes popped open. “Wow.”

“Good job.”

She jolted at the knock on the door.

“Delivery guy. Do him.”

“What?”

“While I'm talking to him, paying him, read him.”

“But that's—”

“Rude and intrusive, sure. We're going to sacrifice courtesy in the name of progress. Read him,” Fox commanded as he rose and walked to the door. “Hey, Kaz, how's it going?”

The kid was about sixteen, Layla estimated. Jeans, sweatshirt, high-top Nikes that looked fairly new. Shaggy brown hair, small silver hoop in his right ear. His eyes were brown, and passed over her—lingered briefly—as bags and money changed hands.

She took a deep breath, nudged at the door.

Fox heard her make a sound behind him, something between a gasp and a snort. He kept on talking as he added the tip, made a comment about basketball.

After he closed the door, Fox set the bags on the table. “Well?”

“He thinks you're chill.”

“I am.”

“He thinks I'm hot.”

“You are.”

“He wondered if you're going to be getting any of that tonight and he wouldn't mind getting some of that himself. He didn't mean the egg rolls.”

Fox opened the bags. “Kaz is seventeen. A guy that age is pretty much always thinking about getting some. Any headache?”

“No. He was easy. Easier than you.”

He smiled at her. “Guys my age think about getting some, too. But we usually know when it's just going to be egg rolls. Let's eat.”

HE DIDN'T TRY TO KISS HER AGAIN, NOT EVEN when he drove her home. Layla couldn't tell if he thought about it, and decided that was for the best. Her own thoughts and feelings were a tangle of frayed knots, which told her she'd need to take Fox's advice and go for the meditation.

She found Cybil on the living room sofa with a book and a cup of tea.

“Hi. How'd it go?”

“It went well.” Layla dropped into a chair. “Surprisingly well. I'm feeling a little buzzed, actually. Like I knocked back a couple of scotches.”

“Want tea? There's more in the pot.”

“Maybe.”

“I'll get you a cup,” Cybil said when Layla started to rise. “You look beat.”

“Thanks.” Closing her eyes, Layla tried the yoga breathing, tried to envision relaxing from the toes up. She made it to her ankles when she gave it up. “Fox says I should meditate,” she told Cybil when Cybil came back with a fancy cup and saucer. “Meditation bores me.”

“Then you're not doing it right. Try the tea first,” she said as she poured some out. “And say what's on your mind, it's the best way to get it out of your mind so you can meditate.”

“He kissed me.”

“I'm shocked and amazed.” Cybil handed Layla the cup, returned to the couch to curl her legs up. She gave a careless laugh when Layla frowned at her. “Sweetie, the guy's got those foxy Fox eyes on you all the time. He watches you leave the room, watches you come back in. Boy's got it bad.”

“He said— Where's Quinn?”

“With Cal. Maverick found himself a card game, so Cal's house is empty for a change. They're taking advantage.”

“Oh. Good for them. They're great together, aren't they? Just click, click.”

“He's the one for her, no question. All the others she tried out were like O'Doul's.”

“O'Doul's?”

“Near-love. Cal's the real deal. Easier to talk about them than you?”

Layla sighed. “It's confusing to feel this way. To feel him feeling this way, and to try not to feel him feeling it. Because that's only more confusing. Add in we're working together on multiple levels, and that creates a kind of intimacy, and that intimacy has to be respected, even protected because the stakes are so damn high. If you mix it up with the separate physical or emotional intimacy of personal relationship and sex, how do you maintain the basic order needed to do what we're all here to do?”