Hyde, an Urban Fantasy Page 6

  “And protocol states that our communications should be via email, so what do you want?”

  “Your girl visited my boy last night.”

  “Did they have intercourse? What forms were they in?”

  “Oh, so now you’re glad I called.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Questions. Multiple. No, they didn’t have sex. Almost, but not quite. He was human, she wasn’t.”

  “That’s not good enough. Their union should be encouraged. However, we are considering the possibility that one or both of them are less fertile in their transformed states.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it? Get Chastity to stand on her head after they screw? Maybe I could hold her ankles for her.” It would give me a chance to slam the bitch’s head into the floor a few times too.

  “I find no humor in that suggestion.”

  As if he found humor anywhere. “Oh, I know. Why don’t I suggest something that seems to work for millions of unhappy teenage girls—doing it in the backseat of a car?”

  “The subjects should be encouraged to copulate in their human forms.”

  “Gosh, that sounds so romantic. I can just see it now: ‘Hey, Mitchell. I’d like to encourage you to copulate with the little bitch while she’s her goody-goody self, and not the bad-girl who throws herself at you all the time.’ Great idea, boss.”

  “If you are unable to do what is required, I’m sure we can find someone who can.”

  Prick. “You made her virtuous and him into exactly the type of man a good girl would never give it up to. And I’m supposed to get them together? No one could do that.”

  “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Turner is a highly-attractive male. Obviously, part of her seeks him out. All you have to do is get her other part to agree.”

  But he’s mine. “Yeah, easy-peasy. I’ll see what I can do.”

  § § §

  That girl was driving Mitch nuts. He spent the weekend cursing his life. And everyone left in it. And everyone he’d ever come into contact with. Until, bright-and-early Monday morning, someone came crashing through his waiting room like a bat outta hell. Damn it, he’d have to take a break.

  The next thing he heard was Jolie shouting, “Do not go in there!”

  Very professional. When his office door opened, he understood Jolie’s sentiment. He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. “Get out!”

  The woman, whatever her name was today, marched in. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was dressed in some Fashion House’s Demure, Dull and Dowdy Daywear Line, but he didn’t have to see her ass to recognize her. Sadly, his cock didn’t either. I have no fucking control here. When did that happen? He lowered himself into his chair to hide his groin.

  “Please, you have to help me,” she said.

  “Should I call the detective, Mitchell?”

  He blinked, refocusing to see Jolie at the door. “No, not him.” Then back to the trouble-maker. “Get out before I call security.”

  “Why would you call security?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Because there is no way in hell I’m ever coming close to you again after Friday night.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Ooh-kaaay. I have no idea what you are talking about, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why are you here? To punish me?” Jesus, he’d just recovered from her last visit. He would never be comfortable walking through that parking garage again.

  “No, but I guess I could give it a try?” The pitch of her voice raised and her face looked like someone had taken a crayon to it and colored in the lines with confusion. “But only after you help me.”

  “Why me?” He put his hands together in a pyramid and looked up to a God who always seemed to screen his calls.

  “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Help people? I’ll even pay you this time.”

  “Mitchell? Should I call someone?” Jolie asked.

  “No. She’ll leave, won’t you?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “It’s fine, Jolie. She’ll leave when I’m through with her.”

  Jolie rolled her eyes as she left, shutting the door behind her. Mitch stared at the woman, considering how to permanently get rid of her. Rudeness hadn’t worked, put-downs, condescendence, sardonicism. Christ, what was left?

  Hell, she’s a crazy person. One should ignore crazy people. Especially people with as much crazy as she has. He dropped his eyes to his desk, having forgotten what he was working on.

  She was impossible to ignore. “Do you do any other kind of stuff for people trying to get their lives together? You know, like those ‘You can be anything you want to be.’ Or ‘You’re strong enough to do anything’ kinds of things?”

  He slowly brought his gaze back to her face. “Do you honestly think I would say any of those things to anyone?”

  “No.” She shifted her weight from one long, shapely leg to another. “But you help people be stronger, right? Decide what they need to do . . . to get their act together?”

  “Stop stammering and get to the point.”

  “I want you to hypnotize me. You do that, right? I know today is usually your ‘Ice Cream For Orphans’ day, but I thought . . . since you’re here . . .”

  “Why?”

  “Why are you here?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. If I had to venture a guess, it would be because you ran out of either ice cream or people to treat like crap.”

  “Why do you want me to hypnotize you?”

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Because I think I’m going crazy, and I need you to find out if I am. Saturday morning I woke up at my house—”

  “What a crazy coincidence—so did I.”

  “While you are oh-so-very amusing, I seriously doubt that your front door was . . .” Her mouth twitched like it had something to say, but needed time to find the words. She’d already wasted enough of his time.

  “Your front door was what? Open? Covered in take-out ads? What?”

  She mumbled something that might have been, “Torn apart,” but Mitch couldn’t make it out. He waited for her to say something that made sense.

  Her pause was a long one. “I think there are two of me.”

  Maybe the asylum idea shouldn’t have been a joke. He ran a hand over his face. “What are you talking about?”

  She wrung her hands as she spoke, her expression a mixture of confusion, discomfort, and determination. “I think that, in my head, there’s me. And there’s her. Two of us.”

  He studied her. She was tough—he’d give her that. Putting up with him wasn’t easy. Two of her? Thinking back to the two sides she’d shown him, the theory that she could be divided like he was passed through his mind, but didn’t stick. Nah, no one was like him. No one. Especially not her. She was too nice, too good. No, this one was just a screwed up little girl with daddy issues. But what if...

  “Why me?” he asked.

  “Because I trust you.” She blinked. “Well, no. That’s totally not true. But you’ve met her, and you won’t be surprised. You know her. I don’t.”

  “I only know that you seem to enjoy being one person and then another.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign and a shit-eating grin. “Loads of fun.”

  “You still think I’m faking? I’m not faking, I’m crazy!”

  He agreed in part, but crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Usually. “You’re not crazy. You’re just young and in need of some serious help.”

  “That’s why I’m here! Do you think it’s easy for me to ask? I went to a doctor after we . . . met, and he completely blew me off. He told me I shouldn’t watch TV before bed, that it will pass. But it won’t pass. So I’m asking the last person in the entire world I want to ask. You. Will you please help me?” Pain, manifesting itself as tears, dripped down her cheeks.

  No, he couldn’t let himself. Mitch swallowed, afraid of what she might do to him, to his life. “Stop it. Go buy a diary,” he forced out, tapping his pen on the desk. “If yo
u really think you have multiple personalities, you should go see the psychiatrist.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, dropping her head forward. “I think she may have killed someone.”

  Mitch froze. “You what?”

  “I think she may have killed someone and, if I go to the shrink, she’ll have to tell. They’ll just lock me up in a psychiatric center or prison. I have to know...one way or the other. Then, if I know I did it, I’ll turn myself in to the police. I promise.”

  “I’m really not interested in your ethical dilemma. Why do you think you . . . she killed someone?”

  “I’m having visions. Images of walking around. Doing things. Doing”—she wrapped her arms around herself—“you. But it’s not me, it’s like I’m having out-of-body experiences.”

  Kind of sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Mitch? No, damn it. That’s impossible. “When you’re having these ‘experiences’, are you on drugs?”

  She flipped her head up and shook it. Once. “I don’t do drugs.”

  “Then they’re dreams.”

  “They aren’t dreams, I’m awake. They’re like . . . flashbacks.”

  Mitch had flashbacks—the cage, the bars, the ceiling, sometimes of Jolie, but none of the night Shelly died. “And you’ve had flashbacks of killing someone?”

  “No. Not the actual killing, but seeing a woman’s body, her face, her blood. Then, when I woke up on Saturday, I found another note. In the same handwriting as the napkin I showed you, except this time it was written on a newspaper article. I don’t get the newspaper, Mitch. I don’t.” She shivered. “It said, ‘Mitch can help,’ above a picture of the woman from my visions.”

  “What woman?” His heart beat sped up . . .

  “Her name was Shelly DuPont. She was murdered about six months ago at her brother’s house somewhere in Lighthouse Point.”

  . . . and then it dropped. Holy, hell. After their father had died, Shelly had used their mother’s maiden name, but Mitch kept his father’s, to remind him where his evil had come from. “You think you saw her murder.”

  “I don’t know. I thought that you could help me see more. Please,” she begged.

  If he could get into her mind, would he see one like his? He’d never thought of hypnotism as a tool for himself. Never had anyone he trusted enough who could do it. Never thought of teaching Shelly or Jolie how.

  “Fine,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.

  Her chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Really? You’ll help? “

  “And then you’ll leave.”

  She nodded. “Then I’ll leave. Just ask her about what I’m seeing. She’ll tell you. She seems to like you. Well, either you or your doorstep.”

  “Yeah, she told me something similar about you the last time I saw her.” Christ, did he actually just say “she”?

  “You saw her again? She came to you? Did you . . .”

  “Fuck her? No. I don’t play with women who have more issues than I do. Not twice, anyway. Why do you think she likes me?”

  “Really?” She crossed the room and sat down. “If you’re fishing for a compliment right now, it’s not going to happen.”

  Yeah, that was a stupid question. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  She leaned back, her head resting on the top of the couch, her legs crossed.

  He moved a chair close to her and sat down. “You’re sure about this?”

  Her eyes were large and scared. “Yes. I can trust you, can’t I?”

  He took his time before answering. Could she? No. He could barely trust himself. At least not when she was around. He’d do it, find out if she knew something about Shelly’s death, and then kick her the hell out of his life before it was too late. If it wasn’t already too late.

  “Only for this,” he said. “Not anything else, you understand? You should not trust a man like me.”

  “Okay.” Taking a quick breath and exhaling slowly, she folded her hands together and put them on her lap. “What do I do?”

  He looked around for something shiny she could focus on. He picked up a shit-stupid award he’d gotten for being a bang-up guy and looked at the bottom. Yeah, it’d work.

  He stuck his head out of his office. “Jolie, don’t bother me for a little while.”

  She looked up at him and rolled her eyes, still holding the phone to her ear, and mouthed, “How long?”

  He shrugged. “When’s my next appointment?”

  She looked at her watch, said, “I will give him the message,” into the phone and hung up. “You have thirty minutes until Mr. Somners comes.”

  “That’ll do.” He slammed the door on her irritated expression.

  Turning back to his pro-bono client, he said, “I shouldn’t be the one to do this. A lot of people are better at it than I am.”

  “Are you better at it on Wednesdays?” Eden asked with a nervous grin.

  “What?”

  “Wednesdays are your ‘Come Get Hypnotized’ days, right?”

  Huh, she actually listened to the bullshit that came out of his mouth. That was new. “I lie. A lot.”

  She nodded. “That’s not terribly surprising. But if you can do it, I want you to.”

  “I’ve only done it a few times, mostly as a parlor trick, so I may not be able to get you under.”

  “Well, thanks for trying.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He sighed, and then went through the steps—carefully explaining what he would be doing, what she should expect to happen, and a few of the questions he would ask.

  CHAPTER VIII

  They didn’t teach hypnosis in college, at least not the one he’d gone to. He’d figured it out with How-To manuals, obsessed with how the brain works—conscious and subconscious thought. He’d practiced on classmates. Much to the frustration of the few male friends he’d had back then, he drew the line on the near-side of a con to get into girls’ pants. He preferred his women conscious, not to mention responsive. But all that had been years ago.

  Sure hope to hell I remember how to do this.

  He kept his voice slow and melodic as he led her step-by-step into a deep relaxation. Understandably, it took a while before her muscles started to release and her eyes closed. Even he wouldn’t dare get too comfortable around a guy like him. But, once she let go, she seemed very susceptible. It was almost too easy.

  Okay, looks good so far. Now what to ask. “Who are you?”

  “Eden. Colfax.” Her voice was dull, emotionless, empty.

  Mitch wasn’t sure what conclusion he’d be happy with—that she was faking the whole thing, was on drugs, was suffering from multiple personality disorder, or that she was divided like him. No, definitely not the last one, that was for damn sure. He’d never wish that on anyone. But she was right—something was bringing them together. He didn’t believe in coincidences, just really fucking awful karma. You get what you give.

  He decided to start with some easy questions to verify that she was really under before he got to the tough stuff. “What color is your underwear?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but there was no tell-tale blush on her cheeks he assumed would’ve shown up if she was awake. “Pink.”

  Yeah, that sounded about right for her. Pink. Interesting. Strangely, also a turn-on. Focus, Mitch. “Tell me about your parents.”

  “I don’t have parents.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “My mother is. I don’t know about my father.”

  “Do you do drugs?” He watched her face for any reaction, but it was peaceful, beautiful even.

  “Never.”

  “Who is Chastity?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you truly believe you’ve been sleepwalking?”

  “Yes.”

  He rubbed his palms together. “Okay. How many times have you woken up in a different place from where you went to sleep?”

  She paused, and he wondered if she was counting.

  Shit, he was doing this wrong. “
Has it happened a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aside from being in a different location, how do you know?”