fearless leader syncs me to somebody with some modicum of control, I take in what they have—again, it’s like my brain is a computer and I just copy the data. If you give me bad data? I’m screwed and I’ve gotta go through the bad data and clean things up before I’m any good, but if you give me solid, good data to work with? Then I’m fine.”
“You mean, as long as you’re hooking up to somebody who’s trained, you’re picking up on their training, too?” She glared at him.
“That’s it in a nutshell.” He shrugged and dragged a French fry through the remaining ketchup, popping it in his mouth. “Before you glare at me, remember . . . if he sticks me with somebody who’s screwed up, I’m screwed up until I get a handle on it.”
Dark memories rolled through him—he’d dealt with that more often than he cared to remember, but rarely had it been at Jones’s hands. It had happened before he realized just what was going on in his head. Jones had been the one to help him get a handle on things.
But he’d been a mess for a while there. A nightmare that he’d rather not have to go through again.
* * *
IT was nearly eleven before Patrick finally left.
Dru locked the door and stood there, her head pressed against the cool, smooth surface, and took a deep breath in, blew it out. Her mouth hurt from the kiss he’d just given her. Although it hadn’t really been a kiss.
The son of a bitch had bitten her.
One more mental mark. One more thing he would eventually pay for, Dru told herself.
And if she didn’t need to finish this job . . . well, she might have put a bullet in his brain before he even made it to the elevator.
But there was the job.
Of course, she’d gotten a good, solid reminder of that right when he’d sunk his teeth into her lip, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to hurt. She’d felt his pleasure in it—not sexual, precisely. Just a pleasure for causing pain, and then . . . flash, flash, flash . . . she was there. It was like a brilliant whirl of light as the memory transfer took place, all happening in the blink of an eye—too fast for her to process, as the memories burned from his mind into hers.
It lasted microseconds for him—he never even seemed to notice. But for her, it was slow, insidious torture, being trapped in the filth of his mind as her awful gift connected them.
Trapped inside his mind was even worse than suffering his touch; it was an ugly place. Filled with memories and thoughts she’d rather never know.
The chunk of memory had lodged inside her head, rather like a bit of food she hadn’t properly chewed. It sat there, trapped in her mind, choking her and waiting for her to either get it down or die.
She’d deal with it. He wouldn’t do her in as easily as that, the wanker.
First things first, though . . . she dumped the dry red wine she’d poured herself earlier. She hated that fucking shite. Give her a mixed drink, give her a beer, or give her a decent wine that didn’t leave her feeling like her mouth was full of sand and she was fine, but those dry reds that Patrick loved . . . she hated them.
After she’d dumped it down the drain, she rinsed out the sink and the glass then mixed herself a rum and diet, heavy on the rum. As she took a sip, she headed over to the wall, dimmed the light.
Once she’d done that, she made her way back to the door. It wasn’t the most comfortable spot, but if he came back, she’d rather have a warning and all it took was a physical nudge to pull her back. Having the door open at her back would do it.
Stretching out her legs, she grabbed the book she kept on the table nearby. She’d done this more than once. Being prepared just might save her life.
After she’d downed a third of her drink in one swallow, she closed her eyes. And then she opened her mind . . . fell into his, into that little chunk of memory she’d lifted from him. Fell into a nightmare.
* * *
“. . . THAT one should suit him.”
“Awful fucking skinny,” somebody muttered. “Be like boning a damn chicken.”
The girl hovered on the floor,