Sell My Soul (Sixty Days 1)

And then they were there. Calling me down. Into the fear.

I took one final look around, a desperate flash of my eyes along the front, searching for something. Anything. Some crazy semblance of safety from nowhere.

And then fate was kind.

A bunch of guys piled out of one of the boho bars a little way ahead, and sure, they were drunk and not exactly the type for white knight chivalry, but they were clearly college buddies, and beefy enough to investigate the screams of a damsel in distress should they boom loud. I let out a happy sigh as a few of them made the drunk decision to hang out awhile on the sand, and held back long enough that they took the steps down before me, barely giving me a glance before taking up a spot on the beach a little way back to the right.

That would have to do.

They lent my frazzled nerves enough stamina to get my shaky legs down to the sand. The dry dunes were hard for balance, my arms spread for stability as I took a sharp diagonal over to the base of the pier. The ground evened out then, the sand flattening as it grew damper underfoot. I skirted the edge of the huge support posts, eyes dancing in the dark for the sight of the terrible stranger.

At that moment I didn’t know what was more terrifying. The prospect of him being there, lurking in wait, or the prospect of a no show.

Please, God, don’t be a no show.

My heart was thumping loud in my ears as I headed toward the sea. There was nothing. No sign of life, no sign of anyone bar the muted laughter of the couple of drunks on the air. Just me, and my blood rush, and my dry mouth desperate for this opportunity to come to life.

I checked my phone and it was ten on the dot, not even the hope of having a few minutes to get through before the guy could show.

The sand was wet here, cold water pooling in my footprints and soaking my toes. The wind was rougher here too, sweeping my hair from my shoulders and destroying my earlier styling efforts in a flash.

That didn’t matter, either.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing but him being here and offering my lifeline.

Please, let him be here.

I jumped a pathetic little jump as a greedy wave lapped at my feet, springing off one of the huge wooden pier struts as I retreated.

And there he was.

Him.

A prickle of senses. A dark scent behind me. A presence. A heat.

I knew it was him before I turned, my instincts on fire as I prepared myself to face the beast.

But he wasn’t a beast.

Not at all.

He was lighting up a cigarette, the flicker of the flame illuminating him in a fleeting orange glow as his eyes landed hard on mine.

And he was absolutely.

Fucking.

Beautiful.Chapter EightBrandonHer huge eyes reflected the flame of my cigarette lighter as she stared up at me.

She was tall, but I was taller, dwarfing her slender frame as I took a step forward in the darkness and exhaled smoke on a long breath.

We were close. Bodies just a pace apart with the thrum of the night between us. My suit felt heavy, unwelcome against the need for flesh on flesh.

I hadn’t felt that need for quite some time.

I knew then, even in that first meeting of the eyes, that sixty days with this one would be more than a cold hard cash job.

The wind caught her hair and the fine strands formed a strange elfin halo in the moonlight. The angles of her pretty face were prominent, even in the shadows.

The girl was a creature to behold. The price tag on her body would be obscene, and it had little to do with the promise of taut flesh under the thick wool of her cardigan, nor the pale expanse of twiggy legs under her good-girl dress.

It was to do with the butterfly nerves tickling the air around her body. The heady rush of breath from her pretty mouth, disguised little by the mist of the waves.

It was to do with the genuine humility in the way her pupils widened in wonder on mine, as though I was inhuman; some kind of mythical beast from the deep all set to gobble her up.

“You came,” she said, and her voice was nothing like I expected. It was stronger and weaker all at once, gorgeous in its husky lilt, polite but not in any way cultured.

Relief. It was full of relief.

I hadn’t felt someone’s relief at my presence for quite some time.

I offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

That didn’t surprise me for a second. I slipped them back in my jacket pocket, my eyes not leaving hers. “It’s a bold move to meet a stranger in the shadows on a dark beach. Some would argue foolish.”