“You said I was your new favorite snack, though.” Admittedly, I’m a little disappointed.
That makes him smile, even if it is small. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“So?”
His gaze slides over to me. In the darkness of the living room, beyond the bright screen of the television, they seem to shimmer. His irises are as red as the petals of a fully bloomed rose. Before, in the basement, they were dark, almost passable for brown. The way they shift at times is almost unsettling. At first, the fear I felt so many hours ago when I first saw him in the darkness comes back. They glittered even then, but only after he fed on my attacker.
“No,” he says.
“Then how will you feed?” I lick my lips, mesmerized by their color. Something in my body thrums with desire, drowning out the fear. Is this me or him? Is it possible that his blood is still having an effect on me even though it’s been hours? I can’t tell.
“Let’s just watch the show, shall we?” He smirks then, looking away. It instantly stops the feeling I have of being pulled in, but the desire still lingers. His misdirection is the only answer I’ll get out of him, and somehow it tells me everything I need to know.
He’ll find his next meal.
We don’t say much more to each other after that. Gray appears to be watching, but he looks so far away in some dark, unseen part of his mind not even cringey dialogue can reach. Meanwhile, I’ve resigned myself to the deep and downward spiral of so many ‘what ifs’ that I’ve stopped paying attention altogether. I don’t fight the onset of sleep when my eyelids grow heavy. Eventually, when I do wake up, it’s because I hear the creak of a door opening, then shutting. I sit up, sluggish from sleep, and see that the other end of the couch is vacant.
He’s gone?
Sleepily, I wander over to the front door and peek out into the darkness. It’s pitch black outside, without a single streetlight or passing car to light the yard or the road. Maybe I just imagined the door shutting, or dreamed it. But just as I’m about to turn and head to my room, I see the blink of two bright red dots in the darkness. For a few beats, they hover, as if hesitating.
“Gray?”
The two red dots blink, and then they’re gone. Snuffed out like two stars dying in the sky. I think back to his earlier comment about the hunger he felt watching the blood on screen. He might not drink from me, but that doesn’t mean anyone else outside of that small exception is safe from a feeding. A chill races up my spine as I wander back to my room, and despite the covers and the extra layer of warmth from my sweatshirt, I still feel cold.
If not me, I think into my sleep,then who?
The smell of fresh coffee crashes into me like a runaway freight train. It’s exactly what I needed to wake me up after a restless sleep. The warm notes of creamy pumpkin, sweet praline, and sugared pecans coming from the coffee pot dance around my kitchen. I barely slept at all last night. Blood, teeth, and dank attics full of dead bodies marked my dreams. Thinking about it now gives me goosebumps.
After Gray left, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about who he might have been eating for a midnight snack. At some point, though, I fell asleep and never had the chance to ask. Unfortunately, any questions I have for him will have to wait. It’s eight in the morning, and sunlight is peeking through the windows in the house. He won’t be awake for a long time yet, and while I wish I could say the same for myself, I know sleep is out of the question.
Must be nice. He gets to gorge himself on blood and sleep the day away.
The coffee pot beeps, and I pour myself a generous mug, then add my favorite fixings. Leaning against the counter, I sip andtake in the silence of the house where I grew up. I’ve gotten so used to being on my own these last six months that I’m acutely aware there is another person here.
“Person, vampire.” My voice is the only one in the room, and it sounds silly to say it out loud. Secretly, I hope he can hear me. “Tall, broody, and kind of an ass, vampire-person.”
But at least he didn’t kill me. Small wins over big victories. I’ll take it.
Once the caffeine burst hits, I head to my room and trade out my hoodie and shorts for a thick sweater and leggings. Once I’m dressed, with coat in hand, I call for a Zippy. Granny’s old car, which she gifted to me, is still in the shop. It’s a pain to wait, but I knew it would be gone for a few days. It needed some major work.
After my Zippy arrives, I climb in and direct the driver to the bakery down the road. It’s a quick drive, and I’m in-and-out faster than usual. They didn’t have as many donuts as I would have liked for Dax, so I settled on the big, heavily glazed apple fritters instead. Back in the car with my driver, we head for String Theory—my true destination. Eight in the morning is the perfect time for pastries and make-up sex.
No time like the present.
Besides, I could have died last night. I deserve a good dicking down.
Twenty-minutes later, we pull up to the front of String Theory. My favorite thing about the club is its innocuous presence. It’s a two-story industrial building with modern modifications, so it blends in with pretty much everything else on this street. Looking at it head-on, no one would guess it was a strip club, though. The glass is tinted all to hell, ensuring maximum privacy, and the front doors are a turnstile, which leads into the vestibule for coat-check and cover fees. It’s pretty swanky. My favorite part, though, is the sign above the door. At night, itlights up teal and red neon—String Theory with a stiletto in place of the ‘n’ and a swishy ‘y’ made to look like a thong.
The first time I saw the place, my jaw dropped. To this day, I still feel the awe.
Climbing out of the car, I say a quick, “Thanks.”
With a nod, the Zippy driver heads out, leaving me at the quiet front of the building. A frigid blast of wind almost knocks me sideways, so I hurry along the sidewalk with my bag of goodies clutched close to my chest. It’s been an uncharacteristically cold fall, and even if I kind of hate the cold, I do love bundling up in all of my comfy sweaters. It makes the Midwest freeze somewhat tolerable.
Around the back, the parking lot is empty. I know Dax has a car, but I have no idea where he keeps it. Most nights, the place is packed, so I can only assume he has it somewhere where people won’t try to break in or steal it. I’ve been here so many times before, but the emptiness in the morning light is kind of unsettling. I kick up the pace and head for the stairs that lead to the second floor. Half of it is a residential space where Dax lives, and the other half is a dedicated dance studio. He rents it out to some of the girls for classes, or leaves it for us to come in whenever we want. I’ve used it plenty of times, and even taught a few classes myself throughout the years.
Two doors sit side-by-side on the top landing, and I go for the one on the left. It’s a simple black door with a peep-hole, and a little mailbox to the side. Raising my fist, I knock. The quiet of the morning is eerie enough without adding sudden loud noises to the mix.
