The Fix Is In (Torus Intercession 4)

I did, actually. “Fine,” I grumbled. “First let’s get you into bed.”

The leering smile made me shake my head at him.

“Really?” I deadpanned. “Your mind goes straight to the gutter? You think I’m going to carry you in there and ravish your feverish body?”

His eyebrows—thick, perfectly shaped, and wildly expressive—showed again what he was thinking as they rose in surprise.

I growled at him. “Now listen, I––”

“It’s interesting, don’t you think,” he began, his bottom lip curling in the corner where a sly dimple suddenly appeared, “that of all the words you could go with, you picked ravish?”

Dear God. “Nobody’s being ravished. That was my point,” I apprised him, crossing the room back to where he was.

“And why not?”

“Because you’re sick, for fuck’s sake,” I groused, looming over him. “Now c’mon, let’s get you in there.”

“I noticed you didn’t say bed that time.”

“This is why people are trying to kill you.”

“You don’t think it’s too soon for that joke?”

“Get. Up.”

“But I want to be ravished,” he said, his lip jutting out in the most adorable pout.

“Stop saying ravished.”

“But you just said ravished,” he argued.

“You––”

His sudden gasp was unsettling, and I glanced around, worried he’d seen something.

“No,” he whispered conspiratorially, “what you actually said was, because I was sick there would be no ravishing.”

“I didn’t––”

“Yes, you did,” he volleyed back.

Okay, sure, technically that was what I’d said, but that wasn’t what I’d meant. “Stop talking,” I ordered.

“Yeah, but what about the ravishing? Am I going to be ravished later?”

He certainly might be throttled later. “Just finish the story,” I demanded, helping him up and walking him back toward his bedroom.

“Where was I?” he asked distractedly, leaning against me, giving me most of his weight.

“You explained diabolical infestation to me. That wasn’t what she had. The priest couldn’t do anything, so she came to you, I’m guessing, to get some sort of statement from you that said she wasn’t nuts.”

“Exactly,” he praised me, taking my hand and leading me into the bedroom. There was a king-size futon in one corner, close to the window, a small dresser that had seen better days, and a small wooden desk with a matching chair. The closet was tiny, the kind where you pulled outward on the doors and they folded in like an accordion. It was easily one of the most depressing rooms I’d ever been in, and nothing about it said Benjamin Grace to me.

“What the hell,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

“Shaw?”

“Jesus, Benji, this is a serial killer’s room, not yours.”

He chuckled softly, squeezing my hand. “It’s true I haven’t made it my own yet.”

“You’ve been here how long?”

“Little over a year.”

More that twelve months and there were still boxes in the living room, stacked on one side. Everything in the house was sparse, the drawers not full of silverware, only a few of the bare essentials. It was the same with the plates and glasses. He was living like he’d just moved in, as though it was his first day in a new place and he’d barely had time to unpack a few items to get him through the night.

I squinted at him. “You didn’t plan to stay, did you?”

“What?” His voice went high, and I knew denial when I heard it. “Of course I did.”

“This started as what, a month’s stay? Two months? Did you sublet your apartment in Portland, or no?”

“It’s sublet now,” he replied defensively.

I nodded. “Is it that you love it here so much, or do you simply hate Portland?”

“I love Portland.”

“Do you, though?”

He waved a dismissive hand at me, not wanting to discuss it anymore. “The plan was always to return to Portland, but people needed me here.”

“That makes no sense,” I assured him, easing him down onto the bed so he was sitting there staring up at me before I crouched in front of him. “A big place like Portland has gotta be crawling with ghosts that need facilitating or whatever.”

“Yes, but this is where I got my start with paranormal investigating, so I’m comfortable here helping.”

“Of course you are,” I apprised him. “There’s, like, fifteen people in this town. It’s gotta be much easier than having to deal with family or friends, people you know who you’d have to explain your new life to.”

Lying down, still wrapped in the blanket from the couch, he rolled away from me, and I was left staring at his back.

“Are we not talking anymore?”

“I don’t want to be attacked or interrogated,” he replied, his voice tired, almost defeated. “I got enough of that from my parents and my brother, and frankly, I’m tired of defending my decision to change my life.”

“Okay.”

“I may not be helping people in the same way I was,” he explained, rolling back over, those lovely eyes of his back on my face, “but I’m doing far more good than I was.”