5
Vivien
“Stop trying to scare me. It’s not going to happen,” Miranda said before sipping on her quad espresso shot.
“How the hell did you know I was there?” I demanded, plopping down in the seat across from her. “I am a scary, light-footed vampire. This is utter bullshit.”
Most mornings, I met Miranda at Perkatory—the coffee stand in Sinopolis. The best part of being a vampire in Vegas is there were no windows in the hotels. Windowless passageways adjoined most of the resorts. When I’d been drinking animal blood, I’d go down hard when the sun came up. But the more regularly I drank Grim’s blood, the less sleep I needed. I’d come to depend on our morning coffee date as it was my pre-bedtime wind-down, while Miranda was getting started for her day.
In fact, it was a fucking miracle I could leave the penthouse at all after Grim’s last stunt. True to his word, my body followed his command to the letter. Ten mind-splitting orgasms, ruined sheets, and I not only screamed myself hoarse, but my legs turned into useless pool noodles. I’m not sure how long I laid there in the aftermath, feeling as though I’d died and gone to heaven after all.
Using my body like that was the hottest goddamn thing I’d ever experienced, and I already couldn’t wait to pay him back for it. Grim definitely had some surprise anal beads coming in his future. And yet, that still felt like I’d hardly level the playing field.
Who knew a relationship built on complete trust could be so...so hot?
I took a good five minutes to relay the juicy details to Miranda who leaned in but stared off in the distance as if trying to watch it like a movie in her head. She muttered a few curses at the appropriate moments.
When I got to the part where he commanded to lay there until number ten, I stopped. “Is this too much information? I’m still not used to the whole girlfriend share thing.”
Miranda fanned herself with her ID badge. “God no. Not only is that hot as hell, who else gets to kiss and tell about an actual god. Are you sure he is the god of death? He sounds more like the god of sex.”
“I’m digging the braids,” I said, appreciating the purple woven throughout. The color complemented her dark-brown skin.
Before I could touch one of her braids, Miranda’s hand shot out ninja-quick and smacked it away. I could have used my vampire reflexes to grab it anyway, but Miranda taught me that a black woman’s hair was no joke. Even though I was immortal, she promised certain death if I ever messed with her do.
The barista walked over, my usual order in his hand. A frothy, frozen coffee that was more sugar than caffeine. An absurd amount of sprinkles blanketed the whipped cream.
“So does t-that make t-twelve to zero?” The barista stuttered, referring to the number of times I’d failed to scare or surprise Miranda.
Aaron reminded me of Patrick Swayze inPoint Breakwith his shaggy, sun-bleached hair, bronze skin, and turquoise blue eyes. His stutter was a constant companion, but I never asked him why he had it. If he wanted to share, he could.
“How does she do it?” I asked Aaron. Then I squinted one eye at Miranda. “Are you some kind of supernatural being?”
Miranda shot a deliberate glance at Aaron. He didn’t know about vampires and gods, and she didn’t appreciate how loose I was about dropping the hints around our friend. But what normal dude would assume we were ever serious about that stuff?
“Special forces,” Aaron reminded me. It was true. Miranda was a certified grade A badass.
“I still think it’s some kind of mom power,” I countered. “How is Jamal doing?”
“I signed him up for a fall baseball season because he can’t get enough right now. His pitching arm is almost unstoppable now.” She couldn’t help the sideways smile and pride from slipping into her voice.
I clapped my hands. “Oh, if they have a night game, I’m totally there! I’ll bring pompoms and scream the loudest.”
Aaron would have continued to hang with us, but a line formed as the hungover masses in their luxury sweat suits and overpriced sunglasses lined up. Top shelf liquor and various drug residues oozed from their pores, assailing my senses with sour yeast.
“So, did you get it?” Miranda asked, leaning an elbow on our little café table.
I shook my head, staring into my drink. “No. I mean, I got it, but it was a fake. And it ended bloody at the Parisienne.” I played with the cheap cupcake charm on my necklace. It was a gift from the owner of the bakery I used to live above, and the best gift I’d received in my adult life, until Grim started showering me in motorcycles and reaper puppies.
Her eyes widened. “That was you? Everyone is talking about it.”
I nodded and rolled the cup back and forth in my hands. It wasn’t like every day ended with someone jumping off a building in Vegas. Though admittedly, it happened more often than other places, considering people got desperate after making poor life choices in Sin City.
“I couldn’t stop him. Worst yet”—I leaned in and lowered my voice—”he’d been worshiping a god.”
“That’s a big no-no, right?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” I affirmed, before sucking on my frothy caffeine fix. Though eating and drinking anything other than blood did nothing to keep me alive, I was living the dream. Eating and drinking anything I wanted without ever gaining weight. I took advantage of that as often as possible.
