Bonded by Accident

Of course all Kindred were paid a living wage and had access to free health care—that was as it should be. But it was nice to have a job he was good at—even though he hadn’t been at it long.

I should get back to it now, Slade told himself. My shift starts in an hour. I’ll give Brandi some time and then maybe I’ll come back…or maybe I won’t. Maybe if we stay away from each other the bond will wither and die.

But that thought brought such a grim feeling of unease with it, that Slade had to pace back and forth in front of Brandi’s domicile several times before he could calm down.

As he walked back to his shuttle, he was more confused and had more questions than when he’d come from the Mother Ship in the first place. Part of him whispered that he should leave Brandi and her little girl alone but another, stronger instinct urged him to go find the two and hold them close—to protect them and guard them with his life.

Slade tried without success to push the strong emotions away. He told himself he had no claim on their little family. Brandi and her daughter were doing just fine without him. Well, if not exactly just fine, they were at least getting by.

But what if you got her pregnant? whispered a little voice in his head. What if she suddenly has another mouth to feed when you heard her thinking she can barely afford to clothe and feed herself and her daughter now? You need to provide for them, Slade—you need to protect them and care for them!

It was such an overwhelming urge that he had to force himself to fly back to the Mother Ship at once. Because he knew if he didn’t, he would seek Brandi out when clearly all she wanted was to be left alone.

Goddess, what a mess! He promised himself grimly that he wouldn’t ever bother her again.

It was a promise that lasted all of one entire day.

Chapter Eight

“Oh, Brandi! Well you came and you gave what I’m takin’—but I sent you away! Oh, Brandi…”

Mr. Grabbar’s singing was off-key and very flat. The first time he’d trotted out the old Manilow song in reference to her name, Brandi was new on the job and wanted her boss to like her. So she had laughed and pretended to think it was charming.

Big mistake.

Now Mr. Grabbar—Grabass, she thought resentfully—sang the song whenever he was in the mood to try something. In fact, Brandi had begun to take it as a kind of musical warning—like the da-Dum, da-Dum music from Jaws. When she heard her boss butchering the old Vegas lounge favorite, she knew his wandering hands weren’t far behind…or far from her behind, since he seemed to have a special affinity for her ass.

“Oh, Brandi! It’ll be all the sweet love we’re makin’…”

Brandi gritted her teeth. He couldn’t even get the words right! But that didn’t stop him. Her boss seemed to genuinely believe he had a wonderful, sexy voice and he was wooing her in some way with his awful singing.

Mr. Grabbar’s performance reminded Brandi of those contestants on the old American Idol game show that remained absolutely convinced they had wonderful voices even after the judges told them they were terrible. Though of course, she had never had the nerve to tell her boss exactly how bad his singing was. She usually just smiled weakly and watched her back.

“Oh, Brandi!” Mr. Grabbar sang loudly. He had had his own office and hers was connected to it, so he felt free to sing as loud as he wanted—as well as to try and grab her whenever he pleased, since there was rarely anyone else around.

Brandi hated the office layout of the downtown branch of the Bank of Tampa. Maybe it was supposed to isolate and protect the bank manager in case robbers came in and demanded the codes to the safe or something but all it really did was keep herself and her boss out of sight of anyone else. Which gave him complete freedom to try all the nasty little tricks he wanted to.

“Oh Brandi, well I’ll eat all the muffins you’re bakin’ and I need some today!”

He was right behind her now, as she stood at his personal copy machine. Sometimes Brandi pretended it was out of toner just so she could go make copies at the communal machine in the main part of the bank. That way she wasn’t standing around unprotected.

Sure enough, a sly hand started to feel its way across her bottom.

“Mr. Grabbar!” She whirled around but then she was face to face with him, which was arguably much worse. Harold Grabbar was fifty, fat, and balding with terrible coffee breath. He looked not unlike a certain movie producer who had recently been in the news as a serial harasser and abuser of women.