Neon Blue by E Frost (best book reader .TXT) 📗

my shattered bedroom windows as if I could see him. And I almost can. He’s in the shower, eyes closed, head thrown back. The water carves glistening rivulets down his golden skin. Wet pathways that remind me of the way he wanted me to touch him last night, tracing my fingers lightly over his chest and belly. His faintly smoky scent fills my nose.

I shake my head. The last thing I need while I’m trying to repair the windows is to be distracted by the demon in my shower.

I was readin’ the back of that ice cream carton last night. They sell the stuff here.

At every CVS and grocery store. What’s the big deal?

The demon opens one eye and glares at me through the walls. Their outlet’s the real ice cream experience. That’s what it said on the box. I want the real ice cream experience.

Tourist. I sigh and Izzy licks my ear consolingly. Fine, we’ll detour for the real ice cream experience. I suppose you’ll want the real duck tour experience, too.

What’s a duck tour?

No! No way. Forget I said anything. We are not going on a duck tour. Take your shower and let me fix the windows before your poor lizard freezes to death.

The demon chuckles. Sure. By the way, what were you thinking about before we started talkin’ about ice cream?

Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Take your shower! I try to shut him out of my thoughts, but it’s impossible. The vision of him in the shower grows clearer, as though the house’s walls are dissolving.

He rubs shower gel over himself, lathering his skin slowly. Foam slips down over the heavy muscles of his chest, the tight washboard of his stomach. He reaches down and rubs soapy fingers through the dark, wet curls at his groin. Then slowly, so slowly, so teasingly, he soaps his penis, pulling and stroking the way he had me touch him last night, until he’s full and hard. My pulse begins to drum in my throat. He rocks forward and back, flexing his hips and thighs, stroking himself over and over. My eyes roll back in my head, remembering that motion when he was deep inside me.

C’mon, sweet meat, this is all for you. With a wicked chuckle, the demon closes the connection between our minds.

I stand on my dying lawn, clutching a piece of broken glass, with a fire salamander wrapped around my shoulders, and try desperately to focus on what I’m supposed to be doing. Anything rather than running upstairs and joining the demon in my shower.

Between me fixing the windows and the demon’s preening, we don’t make it into the city until the late afternoon. Guess driving down to Cohasset to visit the Hobomock is going to have to wait for another day. Instead, I take the demon to the Prudential Building, up to the Skywalk where he can see the whole city spread out below. The September sun’s already slanting golden over the buildings, setting the Hancock Tower aflame. The demon’s riveted, standing on the viewing platform and staring out the huge window at the glowing glass sliver as though bewitched.

I’ve seen the view before, and it’s a good view, but it doesn’t hold my attention the way it does the demon’s. I take several turns around the viewing platform while he stands and stares. The Skywalk is full of Saturday afternoon tourists and I have to weave my way through them. The finally-finished arch of the Zakim Bridge draws my eye. It’s striking, but I’m not sure if it’s really been worth fourteen gazillion dollars and a decade of construction. I stick out my tongue at a mixed flock of gargoyles and nethancs that peer back at me from the bridge’s upper struts and move on. Passing the windows that overlook Huntington Avenue, I see one of the amphibious trucks rolling towards the Charles. I glance across the platform at the demon. Maybe he really would like a duck tour. It can’t be any worse than the swan boat in the Public Garden, where I’ve gone with pretty much every one of my boyfriends at some point.

The demon snags me as I make my next circuit of the Skywalk and draws me against his side.

Look, he thinks. I do. The Hancock is a burning pillar among the duller marble and brick buildings of Boston’s skyline. It glows crimson at the top, gold along its massive length, and the bottom is swallowed in a bright white glare. Reflected clouds create swirls and eddies in the play of color.

It’s gorgeous, I agree.

It’s a Pillar of Fire.

I was just thinking the same thing. I frown up at him. Am I picking up stray thoughts from him? But you think it like it’s in all caps or something.

The Pillar of Fire is the heart of Hell. If demons have a collective soul, the Pillar of Fire is it.

Oh.

He drapes an arm around me and nuzzles my ear, his dreadlocks spilling around us. That all you got to say?

Well, I’ve seen it before.

He lifts his head and looks at the brilliant tower again. Yeah, you’ve seen lotsa things I haven’t. Bet you’ve ridden the wind, too. His dark eyes track upwards to where a jet’s contrail burns a white scar across the sky.

I slide my hand under his leather jacket, around the muscled firmness of his waist, and look up into his face. He’s watching the airplane, wonder and hurt and a terrible desire combining in the neon glow of his eyes.

Jou . . . I’ll take you on a plane. It’s an inadequate promise in the face of the need in his eyes. But it’s the best I can do.

He smiles slowly and looks down at me. You’re such a soft thing.

I shrug uncomfortably. No, I’m not.

Yeah, you are . . . He turns his head, a movement that I know is whip-flick fast but seems to stretch out as time slows. Stutters to a stop. The people filling the platform blur into ribbons of colored light. In the