Page 11 of Power of the Mind
I waited for the punch line, but it was taking an eternity to arrive. It was coming, right? He couldn’t be serious. He was being funny, trying to pull a fast one and make me laugh.
But no. Something told me I was wrong.
When Tallus released my shoulders and crossed both arms over his chest—exuding an air of irritation—I shoved away from the desk and stood, scrubbing a hand over my shorn hair and aiming for the living quarters attached to my office.
“I need a minute.”
The words,you’re insane,andyou have to be out of your fucking mind,andI have better things to do with my time than investigate a half-cracked theory that a psychic is killing people through mind controlsat on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them and aimed for the fridge.
Do not be reactive. Control your tone. Watch your mouth.
I liked Tallus. I didn’t want to yell or insult him. I didn’t want to scare him off. In fact, I craved the idea of having an excuse to keep him around no matter how much dinners and conversations terrified me.
But was he for real? This wasn’t a case. This was ludicrous. This was something you’d see printed in the tabloids.
I stared at the empty shelves in the refrigerator, wishing a bottle of beer would magically appear. I couldn’t keep alcohol in the house because it disappeared as fast as I bought it, and it was becoming a problem. I did not want to be my father.
Slamming the door in frustration, I spun on Tallus. “You’re out of your fucking mind.” So much for holding my tongue. I paced, needing to expel pent-up energy. My living space was minimal, so I couldn’t go far.
“Will you at least look at the evidence?”
“No. You’re insane.”
Goddammit, shut up.
“Come on, D. You don’t mean that. Have an open mind. Please.” And fuck him for the pleading tone and hangdog look in his eyes. Fuck him for that sultry pout of his too-perfect lips.
I growled. “I have better things to do than investigate a half-cracked theory that a psychic is mind-controlling people into committing suicide.” I spun around and kicked the fridge before opening it, unearthing a can of Dr Pepper, and pulling the tab.
The bubbles burned my throat, but I chugged it down.
It was not satisfying. The sugary syrup hit the back of my throat, and I almost gagged before setting the can aside and swiping a hand over my mouth in disgust.
Facing off with Tallus, leveling my tone, I said, “It’s not a case. It’s a coincidence.”
Nothing I said fazed him. Tallus remained a few feet away, feet planted, hands on his hips as he gently swayed. His force field-weakening expression would eventually wear me down, and he knew it.
I growled again.
He batted his lashes.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? I’m standing here.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Please, Guns.” A smirk.
“No,” I barked with no heat.
“Pretty please.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Do it for me.”
Tallus closed the distance. He was a whole head shorter and had to peer up to maintain eye contact. Somehow, despite my size advantage, I was always the weaker one, the one who crumpled under pressure, the one who didn’t know how to stand their ground.