Page 21 of Rags's Awakening
Rags stared into his cup for a long moment, the steam curling up between them. He’d be the last person to admit it, but Clara wasn’t entirely wrong. There was something about her know-it-all boss that intrigued him, pulled him in… and he didn’t like it one bit.
Casey had those curves that could make a man forget what he was saying, wild dark hair, and that smart-mouthed attitude he found way too damn refreshing. What got to him most, though, was that she wasn’t taken in by his bad boy vibes the way other chicks always were. He knew she was attracted to him; he caught her checking him out, heard that quick hitch of breath when he got too close. But she never let it last, never gave him the satisfaction. And somehow, that only drew him in deeper.
Rags took a slow drink, letting the bitterness bite at the back of his throat.
“You make too damn much out of nothing,” he said finally.
“Someone has to keep you in check.” Clara grinned and picked up the menu.
He shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. Typical Clara: stubborn, loyal, and sometimes right, though he’d die before saying it out loud.
An hour later, they finished their meal and easy talk about nothing in particular. When the plates were cleared, Rags tossed some bills on the table, enough to cover the check and a nice tip for Maddie.
Outside, night had settled in. The air carried a faint chill, and the sky stretched wide and black above them, scattered with pinpricks of starlight.
At Clara’s car, he nodded toward the door. “Text me when you get inside the house.”
“I will, and thanks,” she said, then stepped in and gave him a quick, tight hug that caught him off guard.
Rags waited until she got behind the wheel, then shoved his hands into his pockets, watching until her taillights disappeared down the street.
Leaves crunched under his boots as he walked toward his Harley. He settled onto the bike, the chrome glinting under the streetlight.
His thoughts drifted, uninvited, back to Casey. He wondered what it would feel like to taste her lips, to feel her tits crushed against him with the scent of her perfume—a mix of warm vanilla and caramel—wrapping around him. The memory of her eyes drifting over him as he stood in her office doorway tangled with the image of her writhing beneath him as he buried himself between her thighs. Desire crackled inside him, and his jeans grew tight as his dick twitched. He gripped the handlebars tighter, shaking his head as if to dispel any thoughts or images of her. Drawing a deep breath, he started the engine, the low rumble breaking the quiet, as he rode off into the night.
Chapter Six
The afternoon sunhung low over the mountains, brilliant against a sapphire sky. The air carried that familiar mountain sharpness: crisp, clean, and edged with a cold that bit through Casey’s jacket. Main Street shimmered under the light, its storefronts alive with the spirit of October. The bakeries and boutiques flaunted windows crowded with pumpkins, paper ghosts, and dangling black cat cut outs. The butcher’s shop had a grinning skeleton in an apron, bony fingers clutching a cleaver still gleaming with something dark and slick. In the bookstore window, a stack of mystery novels sat beneath a string of flickering orange lights and a sign that readHaunted Reads for Long Nights, its painted letters appearing to bleed down the glass. On the street corners, planters overflowed with mums in shades of rust and gold.
Casey hurried past the crowds, her boots tapping against the sidewalk, the wind tangling through her hair, cheeks flushed from the cold. She passed a boutique with a half-Halloween, half-Thanksgiving display—pumpkins on one side, pilgrims and turkeys on the other—before slowing near a narrow storefront wedged between a coffeehouse and an antique shop.
The hand-painted sign above the door read Black Moon Hollow, its silver letters curling like mist. The display window shimmered with crystal balls, tarot decks, and jars of herbs that seemed to darken at the edges when the light struck them.
The bell chimed as Casey stepped in. Warmth enveloped her, along with a sweet, earthy aroma from a burning incense sticknear the counter. Crystal spheres caught glints of sunlight that slipped through the window, scattering shards of color across the shelves. For a moment, she stood still, drawing in the heavy, fragrant air as the door closed behind her.
A movement near the back made Casey glance up. From behind a beaded curtain, Curtis Brixton emerged, tall and composed as ever. He wore his usual all-black ensemble: buttoned shirt, pressed slacks, the faint shimmer of a dark vest that caught the light without softening him. Even in the warm glow of the shop, he seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
“Afternoon, Casey,” he said, voice low and even, as if every word had been measured before it left his mouth.
“Hi, Curtis.” Casey tried to sound casual, brushing strands of hair from her face. “It’s really cold outside.”
He nodded once, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and stepped behind the counter. He adjusted a stack of tarot decks, straightened a crystal ball by a fraction of an inch, and lit another stick of incense without looking at her. The new smoke joined the old in a slow, serpentine dance toward the ceiling.
Every time Casey encountered Curtis, it always amazed her how different Raven and her husband were. Raven was warm, vibrant, endlessly talkative, and a bit of a drama queen, which fit since she was an actor. They had so much fun at the after-play parties or hanging out at Casey’s office talking about everyone and everything. Once, when Casey had mention how dissimilar Raven was from Curtis, she joked and said, “Curtis belongs to the night.” Casey had thought it was a playful nod to his wardrobe and his shop’s occult aesthetic, but the longer she’d known them, the less it seemed like an act.
The strange thing was that Casey had never seen Curtis smile. Not once. Not even at Raven’s opening nights or the after-parties where everyone else was flushed with laughter and cheap champagne. He had a kind of detached seriousness that couldfreeze a conversation mid-sentence. There was something about him—dark, restrained, and faintly sinister—that she could never quite name.
When she’d first met him, she’d assumed it was theater, a persona crafted for the customers who came in looking for mystery. But over time, she’d realized there was no performance in it. Curtis Brixton was exactly what he seemed to be… and that was what made him unsettling.
Now, as he turned his pale eyes toward her, he didn’t smile.
“Looking for something in particular today, Casey?” he asked.
She hesitated, the warmth of the room pressing in on her like a heavy cloak. “I came in for a book Raven said you were holding for me. The one about haunted historical places in Colorado.”
Curtis paused, the faintest flicker crossing his otherwise unreadable face. “Oh, yes,” he said after a moment, his tone flat, almost reverent. “Ghosts of the High Country.She mentioned it.”
He turned toward the back shelves, moving with that same careful precision, every motion deliberate. The faint sound of bells chimed somewhere deeper in the shop, too far away to be the door. The incense smoke thickened near the ceiling, curling around the hanging charms and glass prisms that caught the dim light. She rubbed her arms against the chill that had somehow seeped into her despite the warmth.
