Arcanum (Tales from the Tarot)

14. Chris

Chapter fourteen

Chris

A fter spending the weekend talking with Greyson, either in person or on the phone, I was in a pretty good mood at the start of my shift Monday night. By the end of it, however, I was a completely different person with an attitude to match. The sooner I got to hang up my gun belt, the happier everyone in Mapleton would be.

For once our domestic of the night wasn’t with Ted and Amanda, it was the Frankels down on Applewood. As far as I was concerned, Luke and I couldn’t clear their house fast enough. I was desperate to go home and pour bleach in my eyes and ears to try and rid myself of what I’d experienced—Debbie Frankel, wrapped in a too-small towel that opened far too much when she moved, accusing her equally drunken husband of shoving a frozen chicken breast somewhere chicken breasts didn’t belong. In nearly ten years of policing, that was a first. And hopefully a last .

“I need a new fucking job,” I muttered to Nitro as I pulled into the safety of the PD lot, parking the squad next to Luke’s. Sitting for a minute in utter silence, I stared through my windshield without seeing anything. Teachers had their problems, sure, but they probably didn’t have to deal with students assaulting one another with frozen chicken.

Nitro whined behind me, reminding me I couldn’t quit, even if I wanted to. Aside from being halfway to a pension already, I didn’t relish the idea of going back to school for my teaching certification. When policing was good, it was great. The adrenaline rush of catching the bad guy. Knowing I was contributing to the greater good. All that jazz. But when there was a bad call? Or shitty nights where everything went wrong? I shook my head and wondered why I bothered.

Sighing, I shoved open my car door and slammed it shut again, vowing to write the fastest report ever so I could get the hell out of there.

“Took you long enough,” Luke said, his thumbs hooked in his vest casually, as I trudged toward him. “You ok?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Yeah. Hey, what is that?”

“What is what?”

Instead of answering, he pointed at my tailgate.

For a moment, I was struck with the fear that Monica had left something obscene for me, like a pair of panties under the rear wiper blade or lipstick prints all over my window. Anything to assert her claim from a distance in case I, or a female I encountered while working, decided to get it on in a squad car… one of the nastiest, germiest places I could think of, short of a jail cell. It wasn’t paranoia on my part—she’d done it. Multiple times. Including other weird and completely unnecessary shit, like spraying her perfume on my uniform and hanging essential oil crap in my squad. And given the fact she’d been trying to set up a time to get together and talk in person, I wouldn’t have put it past her to try and ambush me at work.

Thankfully, I didn’t see anything, at least from a distance, so I moved closer.

Under the bright lights of the parking lot, I could see someone had drawn on my squad, disturbing the fine layer of dust I’d yet to wash off. It wasn’t a dirty message, though.

“I have no idea,” I said, squinting at the marks. It was like a triangle and some squares and other diagonal lines in a symbol I’d never seen before. But then it hit me. It looked similar to the design on the back of Greyson’s tarot cards.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Was this it? Was this how he started roping me into his woo-woo shit, just like Monica? Or was this him trying to stake a claim or something after the bonfire? It was subtle, yes, but why put it there in the first place? What the hell did it even mean? And why did people feel the need to touch my goddamn squad car?! It was my version of an office. I didn’t go to his bookstore and mess with things!

“It was probably kids,” I said, hoping Luke would buy it as we turned and headed for the building.

“At this time of night?”

“Who knows how long it’s been there? I’ll run it through the carwash after I get this report done.”

Luke snorted and elbowed me. “I still can’t believe you didn’t bag that chicken as evidence. You’re not taking this case seriously enough, Brandt! The SA is going to be all over your ass!”

“I’m not touching that fucking chicken or anything else that’s gone anywhere near Debbie Frankel’s vagina. There’s not enough bleach in the world for that! The brass can write me up, suspend me, I don’t give a shit. I’m going to need counseling after that fucking call.”

Luke threw his head back and laughed, screwing up his door code in the process. Not nearly as amused as he was, I rolled my eyes and bumped him out of the way with my shoulder, punching my code into the keypad. “Asshole.”

Luke laughed even harder.

I did not take my squad through the carwash when I left the PD. Nor did I bleach myself as soon as I could, though it was still on my list of things to do. Before I could do any of that, I had to get to the bottom of the weird drawing on my squad and find out what game Greyson was playing so I could put a fucking end to it.

Since it was my night to get off early, I left the PD just after two in the morning and drove straight home. From the faint glow behind the upstairs curtains, it was safe to assume Greyson was awake. I didn’t even bother letting Nitro out of the car before I marched up to Greyson’s front door, hand raised.

The interior door opened right as my fist slammed into the screen door. Greyson jumped like I’d hit him , eyes wide. “Chris! What’s—”

I yanked open the screen door and crooked a finger at him. “Come here.”

He peered past me, glancing up and down the street, before finally stepping out the front door.

“What the hell is that ?” I pointed at the smudges on my tailgate when we were close enough. It was harder to see at home than in the parking lot, so I whipped out my flashlight and turned it on so Greyson couldn’t use the excuse that he didn’t notice anything just like Monica did when I asked what the fucking stale flower smell was in my Tahoe. “That looks like the shit you’re into. Did you do something to my squad?”

Looking at the weird symbol, a frown turned the corners of his mouth. “It was meant to protect you. That’s all. I didn’t think you’d even notice.”

“Protect me from what?”

“Life?” He grimaced and gave a little shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “You have a dangerous job, even here in Mapleton. The cards said something was coming and I wanted to give you some help, to keep you safe.”

Ok… so it was woo-woo shit, not jealousy. Woo-woo I can handle. Kind of.

I exhaled and clicked the flashlight off, shoving it back in its holder. “It was a nice gesture, but I’d prefer if you left city property alone. And besides, I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“Don’t you?” Greyson’s gaze lifted to mine, challenging and looking kinda pissed. In all of our interactions together, I couldn’t recall him ever tiptoeing near the realm of anger, let alone actually portraying the emotion. And for what? Because I didn’t want him doodling his witch shit all over my squad?

Anger at his anger flared within me. “No, I don’t.”

“Then why were you so upset when you saw it? If you don’t believe in magic, why were you so concerned that you came to my house at two in the morning, demanding answers?”

Despite opening my mouth to reply, nothing came out. Frustrated that I didn’t have one to give him, my teeth snapped shut and I looked away. He wasn’t Monica. There might have been a lot of things they shared in common—like that manifesting and vibration crap—but he’d never tried to shove it down my throat. Why would he start now? And why would I think he was the jealous type at all? Just because we’d shared some flirty exchanges during our hours-long conversations all weekend after holding hands by a bonfire, it didn’t mean he was going to turn into a psycho stalker.

“It’s a sigil,” Greyson continued, his tone and his expression noticeably softening. “I use them in my craft, especially for protection and wards. You can’t curse someone with a sigil. You need a spell jar for that.” Turning on his heel, he walked back to his house. Without so much as a glance backward, he pulled the screen door shut behind him and closed the interior door as well. Not a slam, but a definite end to the conversation—if this whole fucking disaster could even be called that.

I let him go. Mostly because I knew I was being an asshole and because I was itching to get out of my uniform and wash away all of the night’s bullshit.

Unloading my gear and Nitro from the truck, I trudged into the house. As soon as my hands were free, I peeled off the layers of my uniform and deposited them immediately into the washing machine. Nitro got a scoop of kibble and I marched straight upstairs to the bathroom.

While I waited for the shower to heat up, I pulled out my phone and Googled magic sigils. I didn’t understand half of the results, talking about seals and demons and shit from the Middle Ages, but the other half of the websites said they were basically pictures of words. Like hieroglyphs but not standardized like any kind of language. And none of them referenced curses, hexes, or any other kind of evil sorcery. Not that I believed in that either, but when it came to spiritual shit, I guess I erred on the side of caution.

As soon as I was thoroughly de-Frankeled and back to feeling like a normal human, I pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and walked out the front door.

Greyson was already standing in the doorway of his house, arms folded over his chest, when I appeared in his front yard.

“How do you do that?” I asked, climbing the stairs and opening the screen door.

“Do what?”

“You’re always there when I come over.”

“I was hoping you’d come apologize once you wrapped your head around everything.” He turned his back to me and disappeared into the living room, leaving the door open as his silent invitation. I closed the interior door behind me and followed him.

“Yeah? And what about earlier? I didn’t even knock and you were already opening the door.”

“As I recall, you did knock, rather loudly in fact.” He gave me a sour look and seated himself on the couch. “I attribute it to the uniform, what was obviously a bad night, and your misunderstanding of the situation.”

“What does my uniform have to do with anything?”

He scoffed and shook his head, looking away. After a moment, he looked at me again, eyes slightly narrowed. “Don’t you see? The uniform changes you. It hardens you, as it’s meant to. That blue cloth is as much a shield as the badge and the gun. You aren’t Chris Brandt when you put it on. You’re Officer Brandt. If someone hits you, right now, without knowing who you are, it’s battery. If someone hits you in uniform? It’s aggravated battery. I know how to read the Compiled Statutes too.” His jaw shifted irritably, like he was preparing for me to challenge him.

Except he was right. Somehow he was always right. Despite being a virtual stranger, he had an insight into me that no one else ever had. Maybe that’s why it felt like such a slap in the face to see that symbol on my squad. It was like two worlds colliding and I panicked because my only knowledge of esoteric stuff came from Monica and I took all of that with a healthy heaping of salt. But Greyson wasn’t Monica and it wasn’t fair to lash out at him for shit she had done.

My shoulders dropped as I cut across the living room, taking a seat next to him on the couch. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you earlier. It was a shitty night at work but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

A soft smile replaced his guarded expression. “I’m sorry, too. Normally I wouldn’t do magic for someone without their permission, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t be very receptive.”

“I don’t know anything about”—I waved a hand at the coffee table and the piles of crystals, candles, and tarot cards sitting there—“this stuff. Just the shit my ex used to dump on me. It was a knee-jerk reaction. I guess I’m still bitter about her and I get bent out of shape with anything remotely associated with her.”

“I’m not Monica,” Greyson said quietly. Furrowing my brows at him, I tried to remember when I’d let her name slip. “But if you have questions about this,” he continued, nodding toward the coffee table, “I’m happy to teach you what I know about magic.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start. I don’t know anything about it beyond cheesy newspaper horoscopes and fortune cookies.”

“You know more about magic than you think. Everyone does. It’s ingrained in our culture, whether we believe in it or not. Take wishes, for example. Have you ever blown out candles on a birthday cake? Made a wish on a star or tossed a coin into a fountain?”

I couldn’t help but make a face at him. “Those are superstitions.”

“Where do you think they came from?” Raising his eyebrows pointedly, he let it sink in for a moment before leaning forward and grabbing a small vial from the table. He pulled out the cork stopper and covered the opening with the pad of his finger, tilting the bottle to dispense whatever was inside. Swiping his damp finger across my temple, the smell of peppermint reached my nose at about the same time my skin started tingling with a cooling sensation. “It’s the same with natural remedies. Peppermint for headaches, lavender for stress. We call it science now, but a few centuries ago it was witchcraft. And sigils are merely symbols to concentrate your desires, whatever you wish to manifest in the universe.”

“Will you show me? The sigil thing? How they work?” I asked quietly, torn between thinking the entire conversation was absurd and wondering if maybe he was right, if he was on to something the rest of the world wasn’t privy to.

Greyson sat still for another moment, his pale gray eyes searching mine with his characteristic intensity. Finally, he gave a slight nod and got to his feet. “Stand up and take your shirt off.”

“Um… ok.” A rush of nerves swept through me as I pulled my t-shirt over my head. Tossing it onto the back of his couch, I stood there awkwardly, spreading my hands. “Now what?”

“Close your eyes. Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Try and imagine yourself surrounded by a protective white light. Nothing can harm you as long as it’s there. If you can’t do that, say the words in your head. Keep your eyes closed. Keep breathing slowly.”

I did as he said, trying to keep my breathing even. I couldn’t help it, though. It picked up when I sensed him come closer, like there was some static charge dancing over my skin, eagerly waiting for contact. The sound of glass clinking filled the silence as he moved behind me.

The tip of one finger touched my back, right at the base of my neck, making me flinch. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated softly, sweeping his finger down my spine and giving me goosebumps all over. Instead of peppermint, a warm earthy smell filled the air.

Greyson circled to the frontside at a normal pace, but it felt like time had slowed. I didn’t mark time in seconds anymore; I measured it with each of his casual touches. The drag of his fingertips, the brush of his shirtsleeve, the soft exhalation as he moved closer still.

Glass clinked again.

I cracked an eye, disappointed that he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed on my chest, so I glanced farther down to see what he was doing. There was another small vial in his hand that he dipped his finger into, wiping a stray herb off on the side of the amber glass. When he realized I was watching, he smirked. “You’re supposed to have your eyes closed.”

“How am I supposed to learn if I can’t see?”

“This is for protection. It’s the same symbol I put on your squad.” Holding my gaze as he lifted his hand to my chest, he drew an abstract design on my pec with the tip of one oil-coated finger, the earthy smell even stronger up close. Hell, he could have been drawing a smiley face for all I cared. He was touching me again, that’s all that mattered.

My heartbeat quickened and I hoped he couldn’t feel it with just one finger.

“This is for courage.” He dipped his finger into the oil again, drawing another design that seemed slightly different than the first. Gliding over my muscles with a steady hand, he brushed the edge of my nipple on an upward stroke. My dick twitched reflexively. I’m not sure if it was part of the design or not, but he mirrored the action on the other nipple. I watched him steal a glance downward at the same time, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest smile. Shit… could he tell I was getting hard? I guess the bulge behind the zipper was kind of a clue. God willing he’d be flattered, not grossed out. Then again, considering our joint jerk-off session through the window the previous week, I was probably worrying for nothing.

“What’s that one?” I asked, my voice rough from trying to keep the volume low without totally whispering.

“It’s for strength,” he replied, watching his hand as it trailed down the center of my abdomen, following the groove in the muscles, past my navel. He stopped at the top of my jeans but didn’t take his hand away. As much as I wanted him to keep going, I was hesitant because, all of a sudden, he seemed hesitant. After flirting with me for weeks, why was he hesitant? Had I fucked it up by being an asshole?

Wouldn’t be the first time…

Licking my lips, I blurted out the first non-sexual question that came to mind, trying to undo the damage I’d apparently caused. “How do you know what to draw?”

Greyson didn’t answer. He kept his eyes downcast, though his hand hadn’t moved yet. His fingertips remained a hot, steady point of contact against my skin. Temptation and torture all at once.

I dipped my face closer to his, trying to catch his gaze, to see if I could get a read on what he was thinking, if he was feeling even a fraction of what I was feeling, or if he’d suddenly decided it was all a mistake—that I was a mistake.

He inhaled a breath and turned, keeping his eyes glued to the ground as he set the vial on the table.

My hand flashed out, catching the side of his face and spinning him toward me again. He steadied himself against me, both hands pressed against my chest, his lips so close to mine that our breath occupied the same space.

“I want to kiss you so bad right now,” I said, caressing his face with my other hand. Sliding my fingers into his hair, I curled them around the back of his skull and pulled him in closer, until I could feel the quick rise and fall of his chest, even with his hands sandwiched between us.

Angling his face closer to mine, I searched every crevice of it, looking for any sign of disinterest or reservation. Thankfully, his pale gray eyes reflected the same desire I felt. Relief hit me like a tidal wave.

“What’s stopping you?” he whispered.

“I’ve never kissed a guy.”

“I’ve never kissed a cop.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Why, indeed?”

Point taken, I closed my eyes and leaned in. I didn’t even have to go all the way—his lips met mine halfway, as warm and soft as any I’d felt before. Kissing him was every bit as good as I imagined it would be.

While the initial urge to kiss him might have been driven by lust, I was surprised to discover the kiss itself was comforting, almost reassuring in a way, letting me know that I wasn’t making a giant mistake.

Greyson’s fingers drifted down my pecs, sliding around my ribcage and pulling my chest flush against his. He slanted his mouth a little more and his lips parted. Before I realized what was happening, his tongue traced along the seam of my lips, soft and slow, before disappearing. As soon as it was gone, I opened my mouth, seeking it out again. He surprised me once more, meeting me halfway and swirling his tongue with mine, as eager to kiss me as I was to kiss him.

My cock swelled, hardening against the stiff restraint of my zipper. It dawned on me a second later that it wasn’t the zipper I was straining against. Greyson was hard, too.

Breaking our kiss with a breathless gasp, I met Greyson’s ravenous gaze, uncertain of what the next step was supposed to be. What was the protocol with a guy? I was already half-naked and we both had hard-ons. So, what next?

As always, Greyson had the answer.

He dropped his hands to my hips and pushed me back to the couch. I plopped in the center with zero grace, but any sense of awkwardness was erased by the faint, reassuring smile on his lips as he straddled my lap. Taking my face between his hands, he held me in place as he kissed me again, licking into my mouth and exploring everything he could reach with his tongue. I was happy to let him.

I grabbed his ass and squeezed, pulling him against me so our cocks rubbed together through our clothes, aching for more contact. I hadn’t made out with anyone like this since high school, but the feeling was pretty much what I remembered—desperate and nervous at the same time, eager and hopeful and worried about fucking it all up. The fact I was doing it with a guy? That a guy was the one kissing me so hard my head spun? That a guy was grinding in my lap, about two seconds away from making me bust right there in my pants? My brain glitched trying to process it, so I turned it off, focusing all of my attention on the man who had captured my interest from the moment I laid eyes on him.

Tearing his mouth away from mine, Greyson left a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of my throat and along my shoulder. When he shifted backward and started to slide off my lap, I hauled him back into place, reclaiming his lips with mine. I tugged the hem of his button-up free from his waistband and I worked my hands under the material, running them up his back. It was a start, but it wasn’t enough. I wanted to see him up close, to feel his skin against mine.

“Take this off,” I said, fumbling with the bottom button as I resumed our kiss.

He worked his way down from the top. When our hands met in the middle, he pushed the shirt off his shoulders. I yanked it off the rest of the way and threw it to the side, mindful of the candles flickering on the coffee table.

With his skin finally exposed, I sat back and looked at him, letting my palms crest over his smooth body. The dark mark I’d seen through the window that one night turned out to be a tattoo after all. A large, graphic pentacle with ink splatters adorned his left pec. It was striking against his pale skin, from the severe black color to the fact someone as well-to-do as him even had a tattoo, let alone such a large and counter-cultural one. A smaller, black sigil graced the inside of his left wrist, but it was partially worn away, leading me to conclude it wasn’t any sort of permanent ink.

“Do you have any other tattoos?” I asked, stroking the jagged black lines on his chest and letting my fingers drift down to his nipple, toying with it lightly.

He smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “Guess you’re going to have to wait and see.”

Capturing his face between my hands, I pulled him down to my mouth, kissing him hard. Electricity buzzed in my veins. The way he kissed me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. I was used to being the one making all the effort, but Greyson kissed me as much as I kissed him. His hands slid along my arms, caressing one way and raking his blunt nails on the way back. Every time he swiveled his hips or rocked his cock along mine, another surge of pleasure rushed through me.

I ran my hands down his back to his ass, grabbing handfuls of him through his pants. I officially hated pants. I wanted them gone. I wanted all of the clothing between us gone. I wanted to see him naked, up close. To touch him, taste him.

Greyson shook his head suddenly, slowing his kisses to soft pecks instead of the ravenous, tongue-on-tongue action we’d been doing. “Chris,” he whispered between kisses. “We need to stop.”

“It doesn’t feel like you want me to stop,” I murmured against his lips before kissing him again. I dragged my tongue along his bottom lip, trying to coax his out. Instead of curling his tongue with mine, as I thought he’d do, he waited until I’d withdrawn it before he sucked my lips gently. It felt so fucking good, I actually moaned.

Then he pulled away slowly, pinning me against the back of the couch by my shoulders when I tried to chase after him. Begrudgingly, I opened my eyes, furrowing my brow at his expression. It was sad. Resigned. My stomach lurched. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to leave.”

“What? Why?” Despite the raging hard-on in my pants, I sobered quickly, replaying the last several minutes in my head to see where I had messed up. Taking off his shirt? Grabbing his ass? Kissing him at all? What did I do?

Greyson swallowed thickly and slid out of my lap, getting to his feet and taking a deliberate step backward. The outline of his hard dick was still visible in his pants, which left me even more confused. Was he still pissed about the sigil thing? Freaked out because I was a cop? Bothered by the fact that until a few weeks ago I was solidly in the hetero camp and he didn’t want to be my guinea pig?

Before I could even begin to fathom an answer, my front pocket vibrated violently. I jumped and shoved a hand into my jeans, yanking my cell phone out. A text message from work popped up on the screen—a callout from Belmont County. They wanted my K9 for a track.

I swore under my breath as another rush of adrenaline shot through me from an entirely new source. If it had been any other time, I would have been out the door before I finished reading the damn message. But tonight? My feet were blocks of ice.

Greyson didn’t say anything as I stood and retrieved my t-shirt from the back of his couch, tugging it on quickly. If it was Monica standing there, I would have gotten a hundred questions. For some reason, he didn’t show any interest in my sudden departure.

Because he knew, I thought.

Somehow he knew that we were going to get interrupted and he tried to tell me before the call came out. Just like he always knew when I was at his door, even at two in the morning when normal people were usually asleep. Like he knew about the accident on the tollway…

“Greyson, I—”

“I know,” he interrupted with a fleeting smile.

Of course he did. I didn’t know how and I didn’t have time to question it either.

Nodding, I pushed my shoulders back and started for the door. I was three steps away when I did an about-face and rushed back to him. Seizing him by the back of the neck, I reeled him in, our lips and bodies crashing together once more.

Once I felt I’d made my point, that I hadn’t lost interest in him at all and that we would most definitely be discussing everything at a later time, I pulled away. He licked his lips and gave me a nod.

“Be careful,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Always.”

Knowing he wasn’t pissed, I flashed him a relieved smile and bolted out the front door to do what I did best.