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“Jane.”
I sighed. “I’m not biting your neck. Too intimate.” I made an icked-out face at him, prompting him to offer his wrist. “Are you sure?”
“Do it before I change my mind!” he snapped, then yowled when my fangs pierced his skin. He tensed, then forced himself to relax, leaning back in the seat, avoiding contact beyond my mouth on his wrist. I focused on the mechanics of feeding, fangs into skin, sealing the lips around the wound to gently pull the blood to the surface. I thought fondly of Funyuns and Cokes sipped through uncapped Twizzlers, the sort of cuisine we enjoyed on afternoon trips to Hickman Lake after Zeb got his driver’s license.
When he stroked a hand across my back, I shrugged it away. More insistent, his hand curled around my jaw, caressing my cheek as I fed. I did not want to think about the pseudo-Freudian aspects of penetration and oral fixation. This was lunch. This was take-out. At least, that’s what I told myself until Zeb moaned a little, throwing his head back against the seat. This sly, creepy voice in my head whispered, You could take it all. Snuff out his life like a sputtering candle, turn him, keep him with you. A few more sips, he’s enjoying it—
“Stop,” I said, pulling away. A sleepy, almost sensual expression had settled on Zeb’s features, and he leaned back in the seat and stretched. He grinned conspiratorially at me as he rubbed his wrist.
“You OK?” he asked, his eyes glazed over and hazy again. He seemed barely able to focus on me.
“Fine,” I promised, shaking away the guilt-inducing voice in my head. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said, massaging his wrist, where a dark purple mark was forming. The wound was already closing up, but he would have the bruise for a while.
“Here.” I dragged my fingertip across a fang and made a tiny cut. I squeezed it over Zeb’s wrist, letting a few drops of blood fall into the closing wound. The skin immediately healed, and the bruising vanished.
“Thanks.” Zeb smiled fondly at me, stroking the tendrils of hair back away from my face. His voice sounded so far away, as if he was repeating lines he’d heard in a movie. But it was the eyes that were unnerving. They were so vacant; there seemed to be no trace of Zeb in them.
His lips parted, and his breath quickened as he leaned toward me. A zing of panic slipped up my spine as his mouth drew closer to my own. I struck out, popping Zeb on the nose with my half-closed fist. It was sort of a cross between a punch and a slap, right in the middle of his face. “What are you doing?”
“Ow!” he cried, now fully undazed and clutching his bleeding nostrils. “What did you do that for?”
“You do not kiss me, you got it?” I shouted.
“What do you mean, I don’t kiss you?” he cried, tilting his head back against my seat as I shoved a tissue at him.
“I mean, you don’t kiss me.”
“I wasn’t going to kiss you,” he insisted.
“Zeb, it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure I recognize the ninety-five percent lean-in when I see it.”
“The last thing I remember is your fangs breaking my skin,” he said, dabbing at his nose and checking it in the rearview mirror.
“You honestly don’t remember leaning toward me with your mouth half-open?”
“No!”
I stared at Zeb for a long time, debating whether I should look inside his mind and determine whether he was lying. Ultimately, I chickened out. Looking into his head at the moment seemed so intrusive … and scary. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what the hell he was thinking. Or if he was thinking. What if the reason he seemed so unsatisfied with Jolene lately was that he was having feelings for me? How could he do that to either of us? How could he change the rules of our friendship that way without even telling me? How was I going to tell him that the two of us would never, ever be more than what we were?
What if I lost my best friend?
“Just take me home,” I said finally, slumping against the seat. We spent the rest of the drive in silence, with me staring out the window, trying to ignore the nervous bundle of BFF at the wheel. As soon as he pulled Big Bertha into my driveway, I threw a solar blanket over my head, yelped, “Good night!” and dashed for the door.
“Jane, we need to talk!” Zeb called after me.
“Good night!” I yelled as I struggled to fit the key into the front door and keep the protective blanket in place.
I slammed the door behind me and threw the deadbolt in place, just in time to hear Zeb say, “All right, then.”
I closed my eyes, praying he wouldn’t come to the door and try to talk about what just happened. I leaned my head back against the glass, listening for the sound of Zeb’s car starting up and driving away. I caught sight of my reflection in the pier glass in the foyer, the oddly beautiful, pale woman in the mirror, her face flooded with relief at the sound of a Datsun’s engine revving.
I glared at the image. “You are a coward.”
My reflection was decidedly unhelpful.
14
