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“If I was a forty-year-old man suffering from erectile dysfunction, that would be a great comfort to me, thanks,” I said, even as the thirst sent my stomach rumbling.
“Think of me as a free-range animal,” she offered.
“That’s…a brilliant idea,” I started, until I pictured her being led into a slaughterhouse by vampires wearing black cowboy hats and Dracula capes. “But not helping.”
Seeing a chink in my argument, Andrea smiled and crooked her head back, offering her delicately veined throat. “Don’t think of me as male or female. Or even human. Think of me as a cheeseburger on legs. That seems to help the newbies with pacifist tendencies.”
I waited for icky visuals involving an undead Ronald McDonald, but none came. “Oddly enough, I think that might work.”
I leaned toward Andrea, who happily settled into her “feeding position,” head tilted back, arms relaxed. She moaned as my lips skimmed her throat.
“Um, if I’m going to do this, you can’t do that,” I told her. “Vampires do not suddenly become sexually ambiguous the moment they’re turned…unless, you’re Angelina Jolie, and then we can talk.”
Andrea silently leaned back and offered her jugular. I found a place on her skin that hadn ’t been marked and sank in my teeth. Her blood was warm, alive, and electric, flowing freely into me and flooding my senses. True to her word, Andrea was delicious, with a delicate, floral flavor under the hemoglobin. Absently, I wondered if blood types were like wines. Maybe type O
negative was full-bodied with undertones of oak. Or if you want something light with hints of tropical fruit, type B positive.
Andrea let loose a comfortable yawn and companionably wrapped her arms around my waist as I swallowed mouthfuls of her blood. It was surprising how quickly my thirst was slaked. Then again, there wasn’t much in the way of excitement to stretch the procedure out. It was cordial, efficient—like an ATM transaction.
I pulled back, watching a drop of scarlet run from tiny twin punctures I ’d left on her throat. Andrea whimpered and collapsed back on the swing, rolling around like a puppy in high grass.
I lay back, too unsteady to stand. The comfy emotional distance I was enjoying evaporated as Andrea writhed and wriggled.
Obviously, she had enjoyed the experience far more than I had. I felt dirty, like some married father of five walking away from an encounter at the Lucky Clover Motel. But at least I knew I hadn’t hurt her. At this point, I just hoped I hadn’t cultivated myself a dandy new stalker.
Andrea’s wounds began to close but didn’t heal completely. Just after the Great Coming Out, I’d read something about the proteins in vampire saliva speeding up the healing process in humans. It seemed only right that we helped them heal after drinking from them.
Andrea’s breathing had returned to normal. She sat up, stretching in a long, lean line. She pulled a prepacked alcohol wipe out of her purse and wiped at what looked like the mother of all hickeys. She tied the scarf in a jaunty knot at her throat and smiled.
She looked like a woman who’d just spent an afternoon with a masseuse or possibly on a masseuse.
“Why would you do this?” I asked, wiping at my mouth.
“It’s nice to be needed.” She rose on wobbly legs. “And if you understood what it feels like to be on the giving end, you wouldn’t ask.”
She stood and fished a card out of her purse.
“I’m going to leave my number,” she offered, smiling. “If you’d like to see me again, just give me a call.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I mean, you seem nice, but I don’t know if you’re…”
“Someone you would spend time with in real life?”
Open fanged mouth, insert foot. “No, I didn’t mean…This is so strange. I’m sorry.”
She smiled, her lips thin. “It’s going to be a little strange for a while. I’ll leave it here for you.”
She laid the card on the porch railing and walked away without as much as a look back. Humiliated, I flipped Andrea’s card between my fingers. She seemed so nice. And I hurt her feelings. I made her feel cheap. This was the sort of thing that was going to keep me cringing for days and then strike me at odd intervals over the next year.
Yep, I’m that kind of social neurotic.
If Gabriel would just leave me alone instead of treating me like some undead child, I could find my footing. I would stop making these weird vampire social gaffes. Who asked him to send take-out on legs to my house? Why couldn’t he just let me take care of myself? Smothering, overinvolved, toxically incapable of butting out. He was like Mama with fangs.
Please, Lord, let that be the only time I compare Gabriel to my mother.
I was running before the idea of confronting Gabriel was even fully formed. Still enjoying my newfound inner track star, I sprinted over to Silver Ridge Road at full speed. It was so much better with shoes. I passed a couple of cars, but if they noticed a woman running at sixty-five miles per hour in the dark, they didn’t make a fuss.
I reached Gabriel’s driveway just as I was hitting my stride. Even in my foul temper, I could appreciate the sight of Gabriel’s house. It was about as stately as houses get in the Hollow. Immaculately whitewashed clapboard, big wraparound porch complete with Corinthian columns, and a front door that covered more square feet than my first apartment. It still amazed me that Gabriel had been able to direct public attention away from this place. My mother and her historical society cronies would probably sacrifice their firstborn just to snoop through the root cellar.
