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"Don't push it, Claire."
Claire woke up drowsy and utterly peaceful, and it took a slow second for her to realize that the heavenly warmth at her back was radiating from someone else, in the bed, with her.
From Shane.
She stopped breathing. Was he awake? No, she didn't think so; she could feel his slow, steady breaths. There was a delicious, forbidden delight to this, a moment that she knew she'd carry with her even when it was gone. Claire closed her eyes and tried to remember everything - like the way Shane's bare chest touched her back, warm and smooth where their skin connected. She'd negotiated for the removal of shirts, since she'd been wearing a sleeveless camisole underneath, and Shane had wavered enough to let it go. He'd insisted on keeping the pants, though.
She hadn't mentioned that she'd gotten rid of the bra, though she knew he'd noticed that right off.
Dangerous, some part of her said. You're going to take this too far. You're not ready - Why not? Why wasn't she? Because she wasn't seventeen? What was so magic about a number, anyway? Who decided when she was ready except her?
Shane made a sound in his sleep - a deep, contented sigh that vibrated through her whole body. I'll bet if I turn around and kiss him, I could convince him. . . .
Shane's hand was resting on the inward curve just above her hip, a warm loose weight, and that was how she knew when he woke up - his hand. It went from utterly limp to careful, tensing and relaxing but not moving from its spot.
She could feel each individual finger on her skin.
She stayed very still, keeping her breathing slow and steady. Shane's hand slowly, gently moved up her side, barely skimming, and then he moved away from her and sat up, facing away toward the window. Claire rolled toward him, holding the blanket at neck level.
"Good morning," she said. Her voice sounded drowsy and slow, and she saw a slice of his face as he turned slightly toward her. Sunlight glimmered warm on his bare skin, like he'd been dusted in gold.
"Good morning," he said, and shook his head. "Man. That was stupid."
Not at all what she was thinking. Shane got up, and she gulped at the way his blue jeans rode low on his hips, the way his bones and muscles curved together and begged to be touched -
"Bathroom," he blurted, and moved almost as fast as a vampire getting out of there. Claire sat up, waiting, but when he didn't come back, she slowly began to assemble her clothes again. Bra, clicked back into place. Camisole neat and demure, if wrinkled. She'd kept her jeans on. Her hair looked like she'd combed it with a blender - she was still messing with it when she heard Eve's trademark heavy shoes clopping down the hallway outside, passing Shane's door, going all the way to the end.
To Claire's own room.
Oh, damn.
Eve hammered on the door. "Claire?"
Claire slipped out of Shane's room quietly, trying not to look obvious about it, and made sure she was several steps into neutral territory before she said, "What is it?"
Eve, who'd opened up Claire's door and was looking inside, whirled so fast she almost overbalanced. She was ultra-Goth today - deep purple dress with skull patterns, black-and-white striped tights, a death's-head choker. Her hair was up in one scary-looking spiked ponytail, and her makeup was the usual rice paper and dead black, with the addition of dark cherry lipstick.
"Where'd you come from?" she asked. Claire gestured vaguely toward the staircase. "I just came from there."
"Bathroom," Claire said. And got a frown, but Eve let it go.
"It's Michael," she said. "He's gone."
"Gone to work?"
"No, gone. As in, he took off in the middle of the night and didn't tell me where he was going, and he hasn't come back. I checked - he's not at the music store. I'm worried, especially - " Eve's train of thought switched tracks, and her eyes widened. "Oh my God, are you wearing the same thing you had on yesterday? You're not doing the walk of shame, are you? Because I totally cannot face your parents if you are."
"No, no, it's not like that - " Claire felt a hot blush work its way up from her neck to vividly light up her face. "I just - we were talking, and we fell asleep. I swear, we didn't, um - "
"Yeah, you'd better not have ummed, because if you did, that would be - " Eve struggled not to smile. "That would be bad."
"I know, I know. But we didn't. And we aren't going to until - " Until I can convince him it's okay. "Whatever. About Michael - what do you want to do?"
"Go ask some questions. Common Grounds is a place to start, much as I hate it; Sam's probably there, or we can leave a message for him. I heard he's back out in public again." Sam was Michael's grandfather - and a vampire. He'd nearly been staked dead, and it had taken Amelie's help to save him. But he'd been left weak. Claire was glad to hear that he was better - Sam was, she felt, one of the best of the vampires. One she could trust. "Well? Are we going or what?"
Shane still hadn't come out of the bathroom. "Five minutes," Claire said, resigned. No chance of a hot shower, or even clean clothes - the best she had available were cleanish, and not slept in. She might be able to find that last-picked pair of underwear hiding in a drawer. . . .
There was a knock downstairs at the front door. An authoritative, urgent sort of knock. It was still early, and the number of drop-in visitors in Morganville was generally pretty small anyway; Claire dragged the least wrinkled of the two T-shirts over her head, pulled on the fresh underwear and old jeans, and hurried out into the hall still zipping up. Eve was ahead of her, already going down the stairs, and as Claire passed the bathroom, Shane opened the door and stuck his wet head out. "What's going on?"
"Don't know!" she shot back, and hurried after Eve.
What was going on was the delivery of an envelope, which Eve had to sign for. As she turned it over, Claire made out the name, neatly written in an antiquely beautiful hand: Mr. Shane Collins. There was even a decorative little flourish underneath his name. The envelope was heavy cream-colored paper. On the back flap there was a gold seal with some kind of shield on it.
Eve lifted it to her nose, sniffed, and raised her eyebrows. "Wow," she said. "Expensive perfume."
She waved it in Claire's direction, and she caught a hint of the dark, musky fragrance - full of promise and danger.
Shane padded downstairs, barefoot and wearing only his jeans except for the towel draped around his neck. He slowed as they both turned toward him. "What?"
Eve held up the envelope. "Mr. Shane Collins."
