I began counting the queries on my fingertips. “One, what the hell do you think you’re doing here? Two, who the hell are you? Three, how did you find my house? Four, are you aware that the Council told me never, ever to talk to you? And five, just to reiterate, who the hell are you?”
“Do you want my name or some deep philosophical explanation of who we really are on the inside?” he asked, his breath feathering across my neck as he circled me. It took all of my strength not to shudder under that whisper of sensation over my skin. “We’re so much more than our names, aren’t we?”
Even though I was ninety percent sure he’d stolen that line from a postmodern Dracula remake, I couldn’t help but duck my head as he rounded me like a predator. And when he smirked, I wanted to lick that little divot over his lips.
Seriously, I was going to have to have sex soon, or I would be making some very unfortunate decisions.
“You, sir, are the devil in a Sunday suit,” I told him.
He spluttered. “What?”
“The very picture of charm, drawing me in, lulling all those natural alarms that go off when a woman hears a line of bull.”
“I don’t think I should be flattered, and yet, somehow, I am.” He stared at me for a long time, and the tension seemed to ease from his frame.
“So what can I do for you . . . ?” I asked. “There was a pause there, which was a chance for you to tell me your name.”
“Finn Palmeroy,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. Given the whole wanna-lick-the-upper-lip-divot reaction, I didn’t trust myself to touch him. So I gave him a nod—a friendly nod but a nod. He handled this miniature snub with grace. Hell, he looked pleased.
“I guess you already know my name, given that you tracked me down like a deer.”
“Yes, Libby, I know a little about you but not much. I checked your driver’s license before I buried you at the park.”
That was right. I’d asked him to bury my purse with me. Because I didn’t want to have to go back to the motel for it. The absolute absurdity of our situation hit me with full force, and I burst out laughing. I giggled until tears ran down my cheeks, and I had to brace my hands against my knees to keep from collapsing to the gravel. He watched me, his head cocked to the side as if he’d never seen someone laugh before.
“That is such a weird sentence to leave someone’s lips.” I sighed, plunking my butt down on the steps. He slid down next to me with much more grace. I put an appropriate amount of distance between us as I wiped at my eyes.
“Our relationship did have a strange beginning, didn’t it?”
“We don’t have a relationship,” I told him.
“I’m your sire.”
“In the eyes of the Council, Jane Jameson-Nightengale is my sire. You’re like a biological parent without any rights. You’re a vampire deadbeat dad.” That particular phrase, I noticed, made him cringe. “Now, what are you doing here?”
“I just want to see how you are. I’ve never made another vampire before. I didn’t expect such a feeling of obligation about your well-being. Not knowing how you’re doing left me feeling unsettled.”
“Well, I’m doing just fine. My bloodthirst is well under control. I haven’t had one violent outburst. I’m keeping my at-home business running, and I’ve only lost a client or two. I’m practically a functional member of undead society.”
“I knew you would turn out well.”
“Because you learned so much about me in the time between meeting me in a cheap motel and biting me?”
He shook his head. “Your ad, the one you put on the Internet. I could tell, just from the way it was written, that you were a decent person. Desperate but decent. Decent people generally turn into decent vampires.”
“I’ve heard that from Jane.”
“Decent vampires have to be careful, however. You could be seen as weak by other vampires.”
“Jane mentioned that, too,” I told him. “So who are you, Finn Palmeroy? Jane has made a few unflattering comments, but I think I should consider the source a bit biased.”
“Thank you for that.” He cleared his throat. “What do you want to know?”
“Why did you respond to my ad? How did you even find it? Do you plan on invoking some sort of weird sire privilege that involves me killing someone or not spending time with people you don’t like?”
“That’s a really broad scope of sire privileges,” he noted.
“I like to cover my bases.”
“I don’t know if I should tell you all that. A guy likes to have a bit of mystery about him.”
“Trust me, you’ve got mystery by the pant-load,” I muttered, making him snicker.
“OK, I can tell you that, like Dick, I’m an entrepreneur. I use my connections to help people find what they need, no matter how obscure. This was my line of work before I was turned, and let’s just say that my being turned stemmed from a miscommunication with a client. The market was a bit more diverse before we came out of the coffin, but I have a few special skills that help me along.”
“We’ll just ignore the fact that the word ‘miscommunication’ was in invisible air-quote marks, and I’ll ask, skills like what? Is it your vampire power? What is it? Is it weird, like being able to guess what’s in a sealed envelope or talk to squirrels?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “That would be telling you.”
“It’s not the ability to guess underwear colors, is it? Because that eyebrow waggle is making me wonder.”
“Air of mystery,” he whispered.
“And why did you answer my ad?”
“Because I don’t have the chance to do the right thing very often,” he said. “And that’s all I’d like to say for now.”
“Will you expand on that in the future?”
“When the time is right.” He nodded and twined my fingers together with his. “So I have a question for you. Are you ready?”
I shifted in my seat and nodded. “Shoot.”
“What was your last meal?”
“What?” I cackled. “That’s the big personal question you want to ask me? Of everything you could ask, that’s what you want to know?”
“Come on.” He chuckled. “Your last meal. You knew death was coming. You planned it out. I mean, everybody asks themselves, if they were on death row, what would they choose as their last meal? It’s like a personality test.”
“What was yours?”
“You tell me first,” he countered.
“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”
“I was hoping for something a little more revealing when you used that phrase for the first time,” he said. When I lifted an eyebrow, he took a small leather notebook out of his pocket and handed me a piece of paper. “OK, we’ll write them down. And then we’ll exchange them.”
“OK.” I dug a few things from my giant mom bag at my feet—toy trucks, lip balm, an extra phone charger, old contact solution—to find a pen.
“Is that purse like the TARDIS, bigger on the inside?” he asked as I dropped the kid debris onto the porch floor.
“Oh, if I was a bigger nerd, that would be so sexy,” I told him, making him do the eyebrow thing again.
“That is a Star Wars LEGO man,” he said, nodding toward the action figure I’d unearthed from my purse.
“Nice try.” I scribbled my Last Supper menu on the scrap of paper. It took me twice as long as his, which I made a grab for. He snatched the paper out of reach and shook his head.
“Same time,” he reminded me, and we slowly exchanged papers. His eyes bugged out as he read down the list. “Roast turkey, dressing, hash brown casserole, green beans amandine, honey-glazed ham, potatoes au gratin, deviled eggs, pot roast, buttered carrots, marshmallow Peeps (purple), pumpkin pie, red velvet cake, an entire sixteen-piece box of Vosges Wink of the Rabbit truffles, and half a bottle of Chardonnay. Good grief, woman!”
“I went off several of my medications just so I would have the appetite to eat all of that,” I
said proudly.
“It’s just so much food,” he said.
“I knew I was going to be missing holiday meals for the rest of my life, so I was trying to eat them all at once. I had to special-order the Peeps from a seasonal candy site on the Internet.”
Finn was still staring at me. I shrugged and read from his paper. “A porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, and a slice of chocolate cake? That’s kind of boring.”
“I’m a man of simple tastes. I’m still trying to imagine you eating all that,” he said. “You’re so tiny.”
I laughed, a genuine, tinkling amused note that made him join in. I let that hang in the air between us, because I was about to say something he would not enjoy as much. “Look, I don’t need you to guide me or mentor me or anything like that. I have a support system and, if I want, a support group, Lord help me. I’m doing just fine. Besides, I’m pretty sure the Council told you to stay away. Dick and Jane both have some . . . not nice things to say about you. They probably wouldn’t be very happy with me for talking to you.”
“Do you always do what you’re told?” he asked.
“When it involves being told what to do by scary older vampires, yes.”
“Oh, we’re going to have some fun, you and I,” he told me. He leaned close, and—thinking he was going to kiss me on the mouth—I ducked my head. Unfortunately, he had leaned at the last minute to kiss my cheek, and my feint had put my mouth on a direct path with his. It was just a peck, really, a friendly, soft press of his lips against mine.
Holy hell.
Even though it only lasted the length of the heartbeat I no longer had, I felt it all the way down to my toes. He tasted smooth, like old wine, and seeped slowly into my senses. It was sliding slowly under cool, crisp sheets, soothing every single cell of my body. Just as the spicy flavor of his kiss had settled into my mouth, I pulled away. I pressed my fingers to my lips and fought the urge to giggle hysterically.
“Right,” I said, clearing my throat while I wobbled to my feet. “Not impressive at all.”
But instead of being insulted by my critique, he simply grinned wickedly as I backed toward my door.
“Some fun,” he said again.
It was at times like these—counting out individual adhesive glitter letters in front of a giant display at Copy Shack—that I wondered whether it was a positive thing that I could run errands at any time of the night. The Copy Shack was the only office store in town now, since the Council office stopped masquerading as a Kinko’s and actually put the agency’s real logo on the door. And because of the laws of elementary-school project timing, I was there at ten P.M. considering just how much glitter was too much glitter for a first-grader’s homework.
I’d woken up that evening to my son beating on my cubby door, asking where I’d put his poster board for his special assignment. A special assignment that was, of course, due the next day. He had all of his photos of him fishing and playing with LEGOs, and he’d printed out his three-sentence “essays.” But he needed a poster-board canvas on which to paste his masterpiece. I normally kept a supply of poster board on hand for just such occasions, but lately I’d had other things on my mind.
Danny needed poster materials for the “superstar project” for Ms. Jenkins’s art class. The students had to make a poster featuring art and mini-essays about things at which they excelled, what made them “superstars.” It was a project focused on color scheme and self-esteem bolstering, so it landed in Ms. Jenkins’s educational sweet spot. Danny swore he’d told me about it. And while I was sure I’d never heard him mention any such thing, I went on the glitter run, because that’s what moms did.
Fortunately, the Copy Shack had a large selection of poster board and adhesive letters for parents who needed to help produce grade-saving projects at the very last minute. I double-checked the list to make sure I got all of Danny’s must-have materials and heard the now-familiar squeak of work boots behind me, accompanied by the smell of iron and citrus. I smiled, turning to find my favorite smartass mechanic standing behind me, hands stuffed in his pockets, giving me a smirk that drew a little dimple on the left side of his mouth.
It was normal to be overwhelmed with the urge to lick someone’s cheek dimple, right?
“Do you only run your errands at night?” Wade asked.
“I can only run my errands at night. What’s your excuse?”
“Superstar project?” we chorused, and then burst out laughing.
“Danny swears he told me.” I sighed. “But I honestly don’t remember him asking me for neon green poster board and glitter stickers. He doesn’t ask for glitter stickers very often, so I think I would remember.”
Wade snorted. “At least Harley admitted that he forgot.”
“Well, apparently, there was a note in their backpacks, so neither one of us is off the hook.”
Wade grimaced. “Damn it.”
I helped Wade pick appropriate supplies for Harley’s project, and we checked out and lugged our purchases to the parking lot. Despite the fact that I had superstrength, Wade insisted on carrying my bags for me. There was an old-fashioned sweetness to that, which, while not exactly progressive, touched the wearier parts of my heart. I was so accustomed to doing things on my own that a little gesture like that had a lot more impact than I expected.
I was actually sorry that we reached my van. I so rarely got to see Wade when it didn’t involve the kids. It was nice to be able to talk to him without being interrupted with requests for juice boxes.
We stood near my van, plastic shopping bags twisting in Wade’s hands, neither of us willing to drive away. A strange feeling of anticipation seemed to seep up from my belly to my chest, this desperate, longing ache that made me feel like I was coming out of my skin. I didn’t know whether that ache would be eased by getting closer to Wade or farther away, I just knew I needed something to happen. Quickly.
Was this how teenagers felt when they were falling in like with someone? No wonder they acted so insane all the time.
Maybe it was because he sensed my mind wandering, but suddenly, Wade abandoned his story about a frustrating customer, who didn’t seem to understand that you had to put oil in a motorcycle to keep it running, to say, “So I’m gonna ask you out. Probably not dinner, since you don’t eat. But I was thinking a movie. The old drive-in at Possum Point is showing a bunch of John Candy movies next weekend. And who doesn’t like John Candy?”
I stared at him for a long time, blinking, and a smile slid across my face. “Crazy people.”
“Exactly. I thought maybe bein’ outside might keep you from gettin’ sick at the smell of popcorn. And besides, you probably feel cooped up, havin’ to stay inside all day. So we’ll take my bike, spread out a blanket, and watch John Candy shoot a grizzly in the ass with a shotgun lamp.”
It sounded like the best date I could imagine. Hell, he’d actually put some thought into what I would enjoy, which was more than I could say for the handful of men I’d previously dated. But there was Finn to consider. He hadn’t exactly asked me to go steady, but it seemed sort of rude to go out with someone who wasn’t my sire . . . without my sire’s approval. That seemed backward.
Right, respond to social situations like a normal person. I could do this.
“And just to clarify, this does not involve the boys?”
“No. This is one-on-one, grown-up time,” he swore, holding up his fingers in a mock Boy Scout salute. “Noncrazy John Candy fans would call it a date.”
I laughed. “Wade, I haven’t been on a date since . . .”
“Since you were turned?”
“Since my husband died,” I admitted.
He took a step closer to me. “Are you saying no because you don’t want to spend more time with me?”
“No.”
“Is it because you don’t want me?” he asked, stepping forward again, head cocked to the side, studying my reaction as he closed the distance between us. And my reaction was to take a step back until I bump
ed into my van.
I shook my head. “Definitely not.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes locked on mine, which seemed inadvisable, considering the whole apex-predator thing. He leaned toward me, wrapping his big, warm hand around my left hip and pulling me a bit closer. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Thank you for the heads-up.” I murmured as my tongue darted out to moisten my lips. Thanks to my heightened senses, I could hear the increase in his heartbeat, scent that edge of excitement spreading through his system in the form of pheromones. I was more than flattered by his response.
I looked forward to kissing him like kids look forward to Christmas. What the hell was wrong with me? I was a grown woman with a child. I should not be all giddy and giggly. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to kiss him. I wanted to know what it was like to kiss Wade Tucker. But he seemed content to hover just outside of my reach, rubbing the tip of his nose along my cheek, letting the bristles of his beard tease my skin.
I moaned softly as his hands slid down the small of my back and braced around my hips. I threaded my fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face as I stared into his eyes. Hesitant, I pressed forward, letting my lips slide along his in a sort of glancing blow, just a taste. Where Finn’s kiss was cool and sly, a tease with a promise of more, Wade laid out everything he had to offer, consuming my mouth with his warm, sweet force.
I withdrew, and he followed, growling softly and crossing his arms behind me to draw me closer. He pulled my bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling gently before nudging my lips apart and deepening my tentative kiss.
I twisted my hands in his hair, sliding up the hood of my van as he leaned in. His palm skimmed down my thigh, wrapping it around his waist. I gasped into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to skate his tongue against my growing fangs. He pulled back, and I panicked a bit, clapping my hand over my mouth. But he was giving me the filthiest grin, rubbing the reddened tip of his tongue over swollen lips.
I swear, my panties spontaneously combusted right there.
“Excuse me!” someone shouted. “This is a public place! There are children present!”