* * *
The next evening I awoke to find I’d accidentally demolished my alarm clock. Either that or Bridget came in and smashed it and I hadn’t moved a muscle. My last class of the day was long over, but I still had time to make it to rehearsal if I didn’t take too long getting ready. I would have to figure out what to do about school before they tossed me out. Maybe sooner than later, as I saw I had a voicemail from my mother.
I seriously considered deleting it without listening to it, because I knew I’d be tempted to call her once I heard her voice. Curiosity won out, and I listened to it anyway.
“Baby, the Dean called today. He said you’ve been out sick for a couple of days, are you alright? I hope you’re taking your vitamins, and did you try that new tea I sent you? I hope it’s nothing too serious, you need to take care of your instrument, sweetheart, it’s your gift. Give us a call when you get a chance, and let me know if I should come up with some soup and those bath crystals you like.”
A lump rose in my throat as I sat there listening to her voice. I knew I should call her back to keep her from worrying, but instead I deleted it. Not because I didn’t want to talk to her, but because I’ve never ever been able to successfully lie to her. Not even over the phone. If she asked something too close to home, I’d be in deep trouble. In the worst way I wanted to call her and tell her everything that had happened to me, but I knew she couldn’t handle it. A problem to her was a gravy stain that wouldn’t come out, or how to balance the budget. My problems would be completely out of her depth.
Suddenly I was much less eager to get up and go to rehearsal. Who was I kidding? I wouldn’t be able to keep going to college, at least not at CCA. Even if I did manage to find a way to shift my course schedule to classes later in the day, what about my future? I couldn’t conceivably travel with a jazz ensemble or even stay put in San Francisco if I fell into a death-like coma as soon as the sun rose.
Sure, I could still get my degree online, or at night school, but then what? I couldn’t keep sponging off of my parents indefinitely, especially if I kept missing school. The best I could hope for was to find a job singing in a little vampire club. Surprisingly, that didn’t sound so bad, but it would kill my parents to think of me as a lounge singer.
That alone propelled me to get up and get ready for rehearsal. I’d have to talk to the Dean, maybe tell him I had mono or something, see if I could work around the class schedule.
There was no sign of either Bishop or my mysterious blonde visitor when I got to the auditorium, but everyone was abuzz with gossip about Trent’s death. Keeping mostly to myself, I found I could listen to several conversations at once, and still keep a general gist of what they were talking about. No one had any real idea of how he’d died, but there was all sorts of speculation that he’d been killed by a jealous boyfriend. I found out his reputation as a bastard was more widespread than I’d thought. Why hadn’t any of them warned me when I dated him?
I made it home again without incident, nervous about getting ready for my date with Aleksandr. Bridget was already dressed for work when I got there, eating a bowl of Fruit Loops and chocolate milk.
“How was priss club?” she asked around a mouthful of cereal.
“About what you’d expect,” I shrugged, no longer bothered by her comments on my chosen profession. “Working tonight?”
“No, this is the latest in club-wear. Speaking of which… stay out of my closet, okay? I don’t want you getting blood on any of my clothes.”
“When have I gotten blood on any of your clothes?”
“Still. Not all of us have Daddy to buy us new clothes whenever we want. I can’t afford to have you regularly raiding my closet.”
“Don’t worry, I have a date tonight, but I won’t be borrowing anything of yours.” I figured something more refined was in order.
“No? Bishop has a thing for the school girl look, huh?”
“Actually, I don’t know or care what Bishop has a thing for.” I knew it wasn’t the club look; he hadn’t stopped scowling over my legs the other night. “I have a date with Aleksandr Kursik.”
“The Russian from the Bloody Hart?” she blinked. “I thought you had a thing for the vampire cop?”
“He’s not a cop exactly, and it doesn’t matter if I had a thing for him or not. He’s made it extremely clear he’s not interested.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bridget snorted, and I shot her a scowl.
“What?”
“He’s interested alright. I could tell by the way he looked at you. Why don’t you just ask him what’s up his butt?”
As lovely as that turn of phrase was, maybe I didn’t want to know what Bishop’s reasons were? It was easier to pretend he kept me at arms length because of some deep, dark secret. If I came right out and asked him, he might actually tell me it was because he found me disgustingly naïve, clumsy or plain, or all of the above. I preferred to keep my cushion of ignorance against heartbreak.
“Because… I’m not going to waste my time chasing after him anymore. He knows where I am if he changes his mind. In the meantime, I have a date, so excuse me, I have to get ready.” For once she respected my privacy enough to back off, and I escaped to the sanctuary of my room to get dressed.