Kiss Across Time (Kiss Across Time Series) Page 2

The silence lasted another five seconds. “We turned it down, okay?” came the call through the door.

  “That’s not why I knocked,” she called back. “That music you’re playing. I have to know the name of the composer. It’s very important.”

  Then she heard whispering. A hasty conference.

  The door cracked open a couple of inches and a single eye, very red, looked out at her. “Composer, lady? Are you for real?” It was a man’s voice. A young man. She could spot jeans and a black tee-shirt, and some facial hair, but not much else.

  The opening of the door also wafted thick, aromatic air over Taylor. The musky smell was unmistakable. She grimaced at the strength of it. “Listen, I don’t care about your little pot party, okay? You can stone yourself to death for all I care. I just want to know who wrote that song you were just playing. Please. It’s really, really important.”

  He opened the door another inch or two. “You’re that professor lady. Next door, right?”

  “Right.” She wasn’t going to go into the specifics about university degrees and titles here and now. Instead she gave him her friendliest smile. “That song you were just playing…the words to that song are very old. Incredibly old. Ancient, actually. Whoever wrote the song used the words, you see—”

  “They stole them?” The man’s single eye widened. The door opened up a little further and she could finally see his full face. He wasn’t quite as young as she thought. He was closer to her own age of thirty, with full sideburns and shaggy hair. He was skinny to the point of organ failure and at the moment, his bloodshot eyes looked sleepy from the marijuana. “They ripped off the words?” he asked again.

  “No, they borrowed them. You can do that with some very old stuff,” she told him.

  “Oh.” His interest flagged. “Then why do you want to know who did it so bad?”

  “Whoever wrote that song had to have access to the words. That means they know about Inigo Domhnall. Well, they had one of his manuscripts, anyway. Or they knew about them. Or knew about one of his stories. They heard the words somewhere,” she finished. “I need to find out where.”

  He tilted his head at her and screwed up his face. “Why?”

  She cast about for a simple explanation that he could process in his elevated state. Then she gave up. “Because I just got fired from my job at the university because no one there believes me that the guy who wrote those words, way back in the fifth century, actually existed. That song you were playing is the first proof I’ve found, ever, that he did.”

  It took the man a few seconds to process her words. Then his sleepy eyes opened a bit wider. “Oh, wow, hey, you’d better come in,” he said and pushed the door aside for her.

  Taylor took a deep breath of the last of the fresh air in the corridor and stepped inside.

  The apartment was the mirror of hers in layout, with a small living room and kitchenette separated by a breakfast bar, with an archway that led further into the apartment to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. She used the tiny second bedroom in hers as an office.

  That was where the resemblance to their two apartments ended.

  There were three other people sprawled in the living room in various poses and attitudes of the completely stoned. They stirred themselves when she walked in, but fell back when they saw she was not a cop or anyone in authority.

  There was a glass bong on the chipped coffee table, and a bowl full of weed next to it. Cans of pop and beer and two butt-filled ashtrays littered the rest of the ash-covered table.

  “My roommates,” the man told her.

  “Hello,” Taylor offered to all three in general.

  An overweight man with green eyes lay in an honest-to-god denim beanbag, his arm around a slender woman with a tattoo of a dragon on the back of her shoulder. The man belched. Taylor assumed that was his version of hello.

  A Hispanic man lay on the ratty sofa, his head on the arm. He was bare chested, and his jeans button was popped, the boxers riding well above the band.

  The guy who had opened the door jerked his thumb toward Taylor. “She just lost her job. She thinks the words on the Nocturnal Rain CD will get her job back.”

  Taylor opened her mouth to protest over that huge simplification and the need to explain all the steps in between that would be necessary, then clamped her teeth together. Even if she had heard right, there was no guarantee that it would do anything to help her career.

  One step at a time.

  The Hispanic guy was struggling to sit up. “Yo, death metal inspire you that much, bonita?”

  “Can I hear the song again?” she asked diffidently. “Perhaps…not as loud?”

  “It ain’t worth playing if it ain’t loud,” the girl murmured sleepily into her boyfriend’s shoulder. “Right, Graham?”

  The boyfriend nodded, his eyes closed.

  “I’m not used to it,” Taylor reminded them. “It just hurts my ears and I can’t hear details.”

  The man who had opened the door was already standing in front of a very expensive-looking media center. He grinned at her as he turned the volume control dial down with a big twist, then hit “play,” then “back.”

  Immediately, the same song emerged from the slim speakers placed around the room, but at considerably reduced decibels. Taylor listened to it, absorbing the lyrics, as the man handed her the CD cover and pointed to the song listed on the back, over the top of a photo of the band playing at a live concert, in front of thousands of screaming fans in a mosh pit.

  “8. Kiss Across Time,” she read. Well, that fit with the lyrics and Domhnall words. Domhnall lived through years of threat from enemies, and the invasion of his country and the loss of his culture. His stories and epic poems were all full of death, glory, love, battles, dying and more….or would be, if she had ever been able to catch more than a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, in research terms.

  “So?” the man asked.

  “They’re the right words,” she confirmed, lifting her voice up to carry over the sound of the music. She raised the CD. “Who wrote these songs? It just says ‘Gallagher’ on the cover.”

  The man turned the player off.

  “Andy knows Nocturnal Rain better’n us,” Graham said, from his recline in the bean bag.

  Taylor realized he was referring to the man who had let her in the door and she turned to him. “Who is Gallagher?” she asked.

  Andy pointed to the CD. “Lead singer and rhythm guitar for Nocturnal Rain. Brody Gallagher.”

  “Then that’s who I need to talk to,” she said.

  All four of them laughed, clutching their bellies and chests and mouths, their expressions alert for the first time since she had stepped into the room.

  “I know they’re probably aloof,” she began. “Being a successful band. They’re probably surrounded by security during concerts. But all I have to do is explain what I’m looking for. I’m not a fan. I’m not a groupie. They’ll be reasonable, I’m sure.”

  Graham sat up. “You think they haven’t heard every scam in the world before now? They can recognize every bullshit fantasy story coming at them and kick a groupie to the curb before they get within sniffin’ distance of the band.” He jerked his chin at Andy. “Tell her what she’s dealin’ with.”

  Andy shrugged. “Nocturnal Rain are kinda famous,” he said apologetically. “They get mobbed a lot, so they’re pretty tight. Especially Gallagher.”

  Frustration curled through her. “This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “I’m not a fan!”

  “Benita, you are more out of it than me if you think you gonna meet the great Nocturnal Rain just because you wanna,” the guy on the sofa told her softly.

  “Although,” Andy said, “They’re playing in San Bernardino tomorrow night.”

  Taylor turned to him. “Please tell me you have tickets?” she begged, excitement flaring through her.

  Andy grinned. “Hey, lady, there’s a reason I’m at home in the middle of the day, you know. I can’t afford
concert tickets.”

  “Scalper tickets,” Graham said. “They’ll be out in force for those guys.”

  “’coz when I said I can’t afford concert tickets,” Andy told him, “I mean all concert tickets except scalper prices, which go about five times the door price.” He shook his head.

  “I’ll pay,” Taylor told him. “I’ll buy them. You want to go, Andy? Would you like to see Nocturnal Rain live? Take me with you and I’ll buy you a ticket.”

  Andy’s eyes widened.

  The girl in Graham’s arms snorted. “Yeah, she ain’t gonna stand out at all,” she said and laughed, muffling her face in Graham’s shoulder.

  Taylor looked down at her silver-grey suit and tugged at the hem of her jacket. “I’ll even get rid of the suit,” she promised Andy.

  His relief was as easy to read as newsprint. “Deal,” he said.

  * * * * *

  “And blood-dipped spears waved beyond thy doors

  Foretelling thy doom to me this day of days.

  I knew of thy love before thee spoke of it to me

  Say not of what is in thy heart for it must not be spake.”

  Taylor shivered as she listened to the poetic words, sung at a fever pitch, thundering out of dozens of speakers ten feet high, accompanied by the screech of heavy metal guitars, while fifteen thousand screaming fans pummeled and thrashed around her.

  She really was here listening to this, she reminded herself. She really had heard the words. It hadn’t been her imagination. She gripped Andy’s arm even harder.

  “Told you,” Andy yelled in her ear. “Can we go now?” He was anxious to get her the hell out of here before he was spotted with his uptight, anal and not-cool history professor neighbor.

  At least he could give her brownie points for trying to dress the part. She’d squeezed herself into a lace-up leather miniskirt and black leather bustier she’d borrowed from a Goth ex-student, poured on the black eye makeup and slid into black stiletto ankle boots. But she stood out like a flamingo in the Sonora desert here. Mentally, she’d shrugged. At least she hadn’t worn her business suit and put her hair up. Andy would have been horrified.

  “Are you kidding?” she yelled back at Andy. She had no intention of giving up now. “How do I get backstage?”

  He looked like he was choking. “Are you fucking kidding?” He waved a hand toward the stage. “This is Nocturnal Rain! You don’t just wander backstage!”

  “I have to talk to them!” she screamed in his ear. “I have to find out where they got those lyrics!”

  He shook his head, mulish. “Not unless you fuck one of ’em, Taylor! It ain’t happening. Not with their security.”

  Taylor gripped the railing of the first tier balcony and stared down at the stage in pure frustration. She had to find a way to speak to Brody Gallagher, because he’d had access to the works of Inigo Domhnall and that made him her new best friend.

  The lead singer, Gallagher, was gyrating at the crowd and the mosh pit was going crazy. From where she stood on the second balcony, most of the pit seemed to be women and those women were showing a dazzling amount of cleavage.

  A couple of wranglers were on the stage now, working on something behind the singer.

  “Shit…damn.” Andy turned to Taylor. “Stick your chest out, Taylor,” he yelled in her ear.

  “What?”

  “I forgot about this. Look as fuckable as you can manage.” Andy lifted his hands as if he was going to arrange her clothing to add to the fuckable quotient, then he dropped them, as if the task was beyond his capabilities. “What about just smiling, then, huh?” he suggested. When he was sober and straight, Andy was smart and quite good company. Since she had barged into his apartment yesterday morning, she had come to like his quiet intelligence. He was not in the slightest dazzled by her academic credentials, or his lack of them and that impressed her a lot.

  “Thanks,” Taylor said, gritting her teeth and smiling. She turned to face the stage.

  The singer had been attached to a pair of wires and now he began to soar into the air above the heads of the audience, out beyond the stage. The crowd went wild, screaming and waving. Everyone around Taylor began to shove and press closer to the balcony and she realized that they were trying to get the singer’s attention.

  The singer was coming closer. The hysteria around her seemed to rise in exponential proportion. Now she could get a much better look at the guy. He was older than she had first thought. Perhaps it was her complete ignorance of heavy metal in general and death metal in particular but she had assumed that only teenagers and people in their very early twenties would want to listen to the stuff or play it. This guy looked like he was his early thirties. That put him just a few years older than her.

  He was gorgeous. No wonder the audience was packed with women verging on hysteria. Dark hair, darker eyes, white skin. She classified the combination almost automatically as classic Celtic looks. He was broad shouldered, defying what she was sure was supposed to be a wasted, frail look for head-bangers. Black jeans, black designer tee shirt, with designer rips and tears and chains looped across the open spaces. Touches of red among the black. A black iron belt buckle down low over an impressive bulge.

  Then she blinked. He was looking directly at her and floating on the wires straight toward her.

  Andy was tugging on her arm. “Taylor, he’s spotted you!”

  She barely heard him.

  The man’s hand came up and pointed at her, obviously giving the people controlling the wires directions. At once, he drifted toward her and the hysteria around her intensified. Everyone was screaming, not just the women. Even Andy was banging on the balcony rail.

  The man’s hand curled around the back of Taylor’s head. She understood that this was probably a standard ritual at these concerts and tried not to freeze or look bewildered, even though she didn’t know for sure what was going to happen next. But her runaway heart had a pretty good idea and her suddenly throbbing clit actually thought it was a good idea, and that horrified her.

  He kissed her and Taylor closed her eyes. She could still hear the screaming but it changed in quality and became fear-filled. That made her open her eyes again. Fear was not good.

  She was not at the concert any more. She looked around the rustic room, blinking. What the hell?

  The singer had her in his arms still. There was no balcony between them now.

  His hands slid into her hair, keeping her head still. “Not yet,” he begged, sliding his lips down her throat, nuzzling her jaw. “There’s time yet, Toiréasa,” he murmured. “Time to say fare thee well properly.”

  “We should have returned to Ireland, Breandán,” she whispered, as he loosened the ties on her gown and dropped it from her shoulders. The words came to her naturally, even as a tiny voice was raging in her mind, “What on earth are you saying, Taylor?” But that voice was being drowned out by the pure sensuousness he was stirring in her.

  “Arthur would have been short a good officer if we had,” he said against her breast, just before his teeth caught the nipple. His hands stripped her gown from her and in the soft morning light pouring through the cloth over the door, he lowered her to the bed in the little cot that had been theirs for the last few years. He unbuckled his sword belt and put it to one side, watching her as she lay waiting for him. He stripped his tunic, trews and boots. He was stiff and ready for her, his manhood throbbing.

  He lay next to her and pulled her to him, his thigh thrusting between hers. She was moist and ready for him, aching to feel him slide into her. “Take me, Breandán,” she coaxed, tugging at his hip.

  His full lips curled in a smile. “Yer a wanton, Toiréasa, lass and I’ve always lo—”

  She quickly covered his lips. “No. Don’t speak of it.” She shook her head. “Tell me later, you understand?”

  His dark brows came together. “Later then,” he said, his voice thick. He lifted himself and drove into her with a powerful thrust, his hand under her hi
p, the tendons in his neck straining with the effort.

  Toiréasa gasped, her hands gripping his shoulders, her eyes closing. Breandán’s mouth came down upon hers, his lips demanding, his tongue thrusting inside. She opened up to him in every way, knowing it might be the last time, even though neither of them could voice that thought aloud.

  Outside the cot, the fear-filled screams of their neighbors went on and on, as the Saxons came closer.

  Abruptly the screams shifted and changed in cadence.

  Taylor blinked. Opened her eyes again.

  It was the death metal concert. Nocturnal Rain. The lead singer was hanging from wires eighteen inches away from her. He had just kissed her. He was staring at her while eighteen thousand death metal fans went ballistic around her.

  She licked her lips. What the hell had just happened? Did that happen to every fan he kissed?

  Gallagher pointed to her again. He dropped his chin down and said something into a tiny voice pickup on his shoulder.

  Andy was tugging on her arm again and she had a feeling she was going to be very sore tomorrow, thanks to his yanking. “You did it, Taylor! You did it! You got yourself a backstage pass!” He was screaming in her ear.

  “I did?” Great. Now the last thing on earth she wanted to do was face that Brody Gallagher backstage. She never wanted to look him in the eye again.

  Chapter Three

  Hands were on her arms, big hands.

  She was being hustled out of the audience by beefy security guys. Her backstage pass was being put into immediate action.

  Fabulous. Didn’t she even get a say in this? Most fans wouldn’t think twice about this, she realized. A chance to meet Brody Gallagher of Nocturnal Rain?

  Was his real name Breandán? Her heart thudded as she wondered about that. If it was, she was going to just about pass out on the spot.

  The two security guys, wearing jeans and black tee shirts with “security” written on the front and back of them, eased her through the auditorium and out into the front foyer, where they relaxed a little.

  The screaming metal music faded to a pulsing beat and scratching throb.