Zion scowls, his expression turning aggravated. “No, he lives here.”
“But he’s not your horse?” I ask slowly, not sure why we’re talking in circles about something as innocuous as a horse.
He says nothing; he just turns and walks over to where he parked his bike. I follow, so I’m only a couple of feet from him when the gloves he left on top of the gas tank slide to the floor. We both stoop over at the same time, my hand connecting with the back of his instead of the glove I was reaching for.
He shakes me off, his hands snatching the gloves off the ground as he moves away from me. “Don’t touch me.” His words are forceful and angry, only increasing my confusion because, for once, I can honestly say that I haven’t actually done anything to piss him off.
Lifting my hands in front of me, I take a step toward him, pausing as he jumps back again. I laugh nervously, frozen to the spot, unsure of how to proceed given his sudden change in demeanor.
He saves me from having to respond by walking toward the door leading to Seamus. “You can meet him if you want.”
Now it’s my turn to blink, once again completely thrown by the quick shift in his behavior. After a moment, I shrug, taking off after him as he slides the large door open and disappears into the other room.
Pausing in the doorway, I peer inside, noting the large expanse I can see with the limited lighting. Zion stops at the second stall, speaking softly and earning a low neigh in response.
Turning back to me, he motions me closer, pointing to the open stall door beside him. “You can get a good look at him from in there. Best to allow him to get used to you with a barrier rather than have a stranger enter his space.”
Nodding, I do as I’m told, walking into the stall and stopping at the wall that separates this space from Seamus’s. I lean my face into the bars, smiling as a white pony looks at me rather suspiciously.
The clank of the door sliding shut echoes through the room, and I turn just in time to see him placing a large locking mechanism on the bars. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping you out of trouble,” he responds mildly, but his expression is anything but mild. It’s harassed, on edge.
I go to respond, but he’s already across the room, the door sliding shut behind him. With a huff, I turn my attention back to Seamus, who has closed the distance between us and is nosing my hand where it’s gripping the bar. “Is he always like this?”
Seamus bobs his head up and down, and I laugh, immediately scrapping my initial instinct to throw a fit. It wouldn’t do a lick of good, and I highly doubt Seamus would appreciate the theatrics.
Shrugging, I move to the corner of the stall, happy for the clean straw and shavings as I sit on the ground, leaning my head back against the wall. “I’ve certainly spent the night in worse places,” I mutter, my arms crossing over my chest.
Seamus whinnies in agreement, and I smile, my eyes closing as exhaustion takes over.
SIX
AN ALTERNATE PLAN, OF SORTS
Zion
I’m losing my damn mind.
That’s the only reasonable explanation as to why I’m suddenly incapable of controlling my outward reactions to a woman I just met. A woman who, only a couple of hours ago, held my own damn gun to my head and threatened to blow my brains out. A woman who sends a pulsing electrical current through my entire body just by being in the same room with me.
A one-way current if her denial of being able to feel it is to be believed.
I pace back and forth for a moment, trying to work through my jumbled thoughts, and failing miserably. There’s something there, some tether of profoundness weaving in the recesses of my memories. I reach for it, stretching to the very limits of my psyche, and my inability to grab hold of it has me stopping in my tracks, frustration overflowing.
Even in my younger years, I always knew there was something different about me. I went about my day-to-day existence while constantly being inundated with an odd buzzing,an intermittent electrical current that made me feel as if I was somehow tethered to another plain of reality.
The same odd buzzing, electrical current I feel with Vivian Jones.
Cursing, I head for the kitchen, intent on a snack and a drink since maybe low blood sugar is the culprit. Or, maybe a lobotomy ala meat clever, if that’s the only remedy.
My phone vibrates in my jacket, and as much as I want to ignore it, I know I can’t. I pull it out, setting it on the table as I grab a meal prep container from the fridge and a fork from the dish drainer. Opening the top of the container, I unceremoniously shove some of the cold food into my mouth, barely tasting it through my apparent mental breakdown.
My phone vibrates again, and I glance down at the lit screen, groaning to see I’ve got a shit ton of missed messages from the boss. Tossing the container onto the counter, I pick up the phone, stabbing at the letters as I respond curtly,
Zion: I got her. I can bring her by tomorrow.
Jacob: Monday is fine.
