Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense)

by Noir, Mila

  “God, you’re on fire, Taylor. You feel so good,” Anton said, coming up to join her, kissing her deep. They moved together, slow, then fast, skin to skin. As her final orgasm rushed at her and she felt Anton shudder, then cry out against her hair, pumping into her, she cried a little.

  He pulled back, saw the tear on her cheek, and held her closer, looking concerned. They were still joined; she could feel his muscles still contracting slightly.

  “What is it? Did I hurt you?” he asked, face worried, pushing her hair back.

  “No, love, you didn’t. I’m just happy. And I have some good news,” she said, touching his cheek. Then she slid his hand down to her belly. It had never been flat, but she felt like it was a little rounder now, just a little. And it would get rounder still. He looked confused, then saw her smile. His eyes went wide.

  “You’re pregnant?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” she said. And he hugged her, pulling her close, kissing her face all over.

  “Oh my god, Taylor. Oh my god,” he said.

  “So you’re happy too?” she asked. He held her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. She saw a little tear slide down his face.

  “I am beyond happy. I love you so much,” he said, then kissed her like he would never get enough.

  Taylor smiled and kissed him back. Life might be weird and strange and even scary sometimes, but it was also good.

  It was so good.

  THE END

  A Bite in the Dark

  (A BBW Billionaire Vampire Romance)

  By Mila Noir

  Copyright 2015 Enamored Ink

  Part 1

  Nothing ever goes quite the way I plan it. Sometimes that’s okay, like when I couldn’t get into the Old Stuffy English Writers course I picked last semester and ended up in The Modern Horror Novel instead. I got to read all the Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and Anne Rice I wanted and I still got the same lit credits.

  Or there was the time in high school when I’d planned to go to prom with some other single girlfriends, who all mysteriously got dates the week before, so I stayed home and watched 80s movies instead. There was a three-alarm fire at the prom locale and everyone else’s night was pretty much ruined, depending on how much “fun” you think spending hours in an ER because of smoke inhalation might be. Meanwhile my night consisted of pretty good pizza and cat snuggling. Also, I heard the DJ was lousy.

  Unfortunately that’s not how things generally go for me. I wouldn’t say I’m a bad luck magnet, but I do seem to have a knack for things going pear-shaped around me.

  Like right now. I’ve been doing the post-college backpacking-through-Europe thing, which sounds really romantic on paper. Sweeping moors, pub crawls, new and exciting cities. With equally new and exciting guys. It was supposed to be the endless party college didn’t quite manage to be because I was too busy, you know, going to class and studying and graduating.

  Reality, I find, rarely lives up to expectations. Unless your expectations are that everything will go promptly to hell.

  Take London. In the spring and summer it’s probably great, but with my budget I had to wait until late fall to go. The plan was to see museums, drink a lot of Guinness, and moon over some lovely British men who called me “bonny” and used words like “lovely” to describe everything.

  Instead I got pickpocketed almost immediately upon entering “the Tube,” the “quaint” B & B I picked out ended up being more squalid than picturesque, and I never got to see the countryside because my even-more-limited funds evaporated like smoke.

  Of course, the city itself is spectacular. Everything an American girl obsessed with Masterpiece Theater could want. I just couldn’t afford any of it except some of the free museums. The fish ’n’ chips are, however, delicious. I’m still not convinced about mushy peas, though.

  I tried to rally and headed to Germany, to what I was assured was the fun Euro city of Hamburg. Most of my luggage, of course, ended up in Barcelona, where I was not scheduled to go at all and where I couldn’t exactly get to without cash. Which was getting to be a running, obnoxious theme.

  It also turns out that Hamburg is really only fun if you like gray skies, cranky Germans, and this disgusting drink called Gluhwein. It smells a lot like rapidly decaying fruit and tastes like watery cough syrup. Not a fan.

  I was beginning to think I’d need to call my folks and beg them to wire me some money so I could just come home. I could lie about the trip, make up some fun things I did, and try again in ten years. Maybe by then I’d have this whole “functioning adult” thing down and be able to enjoy it.

  The place I’d been staying in was another youth hostel, this one not so bad, with a decent crowd of other young travelers. Some were clearly diehard wanderers, you know the type: white kids with bleached dreads and slouchy pants who smoke a lot of cloves. Others were recent ex-students like me, or students doing the Euro thing the right way. Most were at least fun and friendly. There was one guy, Jake, who just about screamed Trust Fund Misanthrope. He clearly didn’t need to stay in hostels but liked to feel more “street.” He wore a lot of ironic t-shirts and was always texting someone and looking properly bored by everything. He did, however, treat everyone to food once a week, so we generally liked him. Free pizza is free pizza, you know?

  Jake also tended to know where all the really cool parties were. I’ve never had a knack for that kind of thing. My idea of a fun time usually includes crackers and brie. So basically I’m like a fussy old lady. And I was sick of it.

  I let myself get corralled into a group of fellow wanderers and headed to what we were promised would be an “epic rave.” I managed to find some clean clothes and asked Tasha (the kind of girl who can rock teal-green hair and not look stupid) if she could do anything with mine. She looked at it, ringed lips pursed, then smiled.

  “We’ve got, what, three hours? Yeah, let me get some stuff.”

  Tasha and I had hit it off at a B & B in London and found ourselves on the same traveling circuit. She was having a considerably better time than I was, but then she was more open and worldly-wise than I was. She’d been in art school but dropped out because everyone was a giant fake, she said. She liked to sketch people in each city she went to and her drawings were pretty amazing. With just a few pencil strokes, she could catch someone in a moment that somehow managed to capture their personality.

  Before London she’d been in Barcelona, where she said the food was unbelievable. Before that had been Tokyo. I wasn’t sure how she afforded that kind of city jumping, but I got the impression she had some kind of trust fund. She never really talked about her family; they either weren’t involved or something had happened to them. I didn’t pry. I loved listening to her traveling stories. They were kind that quirky romcoms are made of. I really envied her experiences and her ability to be so nonchalant about any problems that came up. Being able to go with the flow seemed to have passed me by completely. It was probably genetic.

  She came back with scissors, bleach, and a bottle of something that looked a lot like blood. She had a gleam in her eyes.

  “Ready, Emma?” she said. I looked at her, considered backing out, and then remembered: this was supposed to be an adventure.

  “Let’s do this.”

  While she worked on my head, applying eye-watering bleach with quick, practiced swipes of a brush, she told me about Paris. I longed to see it but couldn’t figure out a way to get there with such limited funds. She told me about eating baguettes and cheese in the grass while looking at Notre Dame in the sunlight. She’d met a pretty French girl called Nanette and they’d gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower and made out. Then she’d met a boy named Andre, originally from Sweden, and spent three days with him wandering around to different artists homes in the city. She said he had eyelashes so blond they were nearly white and glowed in the sun.

  “I didn’t sleep with him, of course. We just hung out and saw the sights. I wish I’d gotten Nanette’s number, though. She was
a great kisser.” She sighed, applying another dollop of bleach.

  “Have you seen Melisande around?” she asked suddenly. I shook my head, the foils making a faint metallic tinkle. “Weird. I haven’t seen her or Karen, that girl from Ohio, either.”

  “Well, we are in a hostel. They probably just moved on.” I shrugged. A lot of people came and went; it didn’t seem that strange to me.

  “Yeah, but some of their stuff is still here. And I heard from Paul that a few other people have gone away and left some things behind lately, too. I can see, like, forgetting a bottle of shampoo. But your backpack? Perfectly good boots? Those things are kind of important to us wanderers.”

  “Well, has anyone else seen them? Maybe they just went to Berlin or something. Or a cheaper place to stay.” But that didn’t sound likely, even to me.

  “I asked Jake about it, since I saw Melisande with him the other week. But he just shrugged and said she probably met someone and was hooking up. It just doesn’t feel right.”

  We got talking about other things, but it bugged me how easy it would be to just lose people in this kind of lifestyle. To lose yourself, maybe.

  About two hours later, I was the proud new owner of swingy bangs and several new streaks of purple-y red throughout my dark brown waves. After that I decided to wear some daringly dark red lipstick and a lower-cut top than usual with my prized leather jacket over it, the only article of clothing I own that cost more than twenty dollars or so. It’s supple, dark gray, and has silver buttons that march up the front a little like a military jacket.

  I felt awesome. Like someone new and cool and not afraid of anything. I felt like someone interesting things happened to.

  I wasn’t wrong.

  ***

  Hamburg in the fall is mostly gray and damp. Some of the buildings look pretty old, but a lot of the city was actually razed by fire during World War Two, so it’s newer than it looks. At night the buildings get a soft glow about them, especially when it’s rainy, which it often is. There was a sheen on the streets, reflecting back fuzzy streaks of light. It smelled like wet concrete. I was really glad I’d decided against the heels Tasha suggested and gone with less glamorous, but infinitely more comfortable, flats.

  The rave was down past the Reeperbahn (their version of a Red Light District) and towards the harbor. A lot of warehouse buildings are down there and the harbor itself is really pretty. There are also bars on every block. Germans aren’t shy about drinking, and people wander around with booze pretty much everywhere. Tasha got handed a beer by a tall young man with blond hair shaved at the sides and a cheerful, tipsy grin. That’s not very unusual for her.

  “Cheers!” she said and took a deep pull. We walked on, a bit behind Jake and the others. The excitement I’d felt earlier at my new look was starting to wear off. I was tired and homesick, and the idea of being around a lot of partying Europeans was starting to sound less appealing. But I was also determined. I was going to have one night of some kind of debaucherous fun if it killed me.

  They say you should be careful what you wish for, right? Yeah, whoever “they” are have a distinct point.

  “Why do you suddenly look like someone killed your favorite pet?” Tasha asked, swinging her perfect teal hair and bouncing a little as we walked.

  “I don’t know. I just feel…weird about tonight, suddenly, is all,” I said, shrugging.

  “Weird, like, you’re going to meet a handsome stranger and dance until you’re gross and sweaty and high, or weird like a Cronenberg movie?” she asked, slowing down. I looked at her perfectly winged eyeliner and smiled a little.

  “As long as we stay out of eXistenZ territory, we’re probably good.”

  “Because weird alien things that plug into you would suck?” Tasha poked me with her elbow.

  “No, it’s just a shitty movie.” And we both laughed, clear in the night.

  “I just feel like something is going to happen tonight, something important. But everyone feels like that when they’re traveling through Europe after college ends, right? It’s like a required twenty-something existential crisis.” I sighed. Up ahead, Jake was pointing to a pointy-topped warehouse not far from the maritime museum. The water was slate gray under the dark sky, and the moon came out for a brief, bright moment before retreating.

  The name of the place was in surprisingly dim neon red, and in German, which I don’t read. It just looked like a bunch of random consonants and vowels to me: Ewige Nacht der Trauer. I wouldn’t find out until later how much having someone translate that would have helped.

  “I mean, something is going to happen. Something always happens. That’s sort of how life works,” she said, carefully putting the empty beer bottle on the ground.

  “Yeah, but a good something or a bad something?” I looked up into the cloudy sky and shivered. I suddenly wished I’d stayed in with tea and called my mom instead.

  “You can’t go through life avoiding everything because something bad might happen. That’s a great way to end up alone with a fish and nothing but Jane Austen novels for company.” Tasha skipped away from me as I reached out to poke her. She knew I was an avid Austen fan.

  “It doesn’t hurt to be careful.” I kicked at some loose stones, not sure why I was being so contrary and maudlin.

  “Emma, you’re not just careful. You’re like…” She searched for the right phrase, pretty brown face scrunched up. She shrugged.

  “I’m what? A downer? A killjoy? Boring?” I didn’t mean for there to be an edge in my voice but I felt uncomfortably like that kid alone on prom night again.

  “No. You’re smart and thoughtful and sensible. Those are good qualities.”

  “But. I can hear a but in there,” I prodded.

  “But. You’re also, you know, closed off. And the only person you’re really hurting is you.” She linked her arm in mine.

  “Tonight will be fun. Just have a drink, dance a little, stay out late, don’t worry about tomorrow until it’s here.”

  “You’ll stay with me?” I asked, putting my head on her shoulder.

  “Of course. Friends don’t let friends out of their sight at raves in foreign cities.”

  “Okay. Then I promise I’ll worry about tomorrow when it’s here.”

  “Good.”

  I wanted to feel relieved and silly, but I still felt oddly nervous and wary. It did help that I knew Tasha would stick to me like glue. I took several deep breaths and prepared myself for all the fun-having I could stand.

  When we got to the doors, Jake and the rest of us were waved in by a couple of stone-faced bouncers with shaved heads and earpieces. You could feel the beat of the music through the sidewalk, a steady oonce oonce that seemed to travel up from your feet into your teeth.

  Inside was not what I was expecting. Most of the interior design I’d seen in Germany so far was very modern, very austere, metal and gray with clean lines and efficient space management. Not here. Everything was draped with red velvet with high-backed chairs, fainting couches, and poufy seats lining the walls. It was like some Victorian brothel had decided to wait out the years and then was rediscovered by a bunch of club kids and updated for the scene. Most of the seats were occupied by people talking, drinking, or watching other people. The typical kind of oscillating lights careened around, casting everyone in shifting shades of blue, purple, yellow, red.

  As we walked towards the bar, I noticed an odd decorative conceit: mirrors of every shape and size were hung on the walls, but all had the glass painted over with obvious black blotches and streaks. It was impossible to see anything reflected in them. The odd bit of light would glance off what little glass peeked through the paint and then was gone.

  “Those mirrors are really weird,” I tried to tell Tasha. She just smiled and nodded, the universal symbol for “I can’t hear anything you’re saying but I’ll pretend anyway!” I sighed and pointed at the bar. She gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  Jake and a cadre of other hip young things we
re huddled by the opposite end of the bar, nursing pale green drinks in actual glasses. I suspected it was probably supposed to look like (or might actually be) absinthe. I think anything licorice-flavored is disgusting, personally. Plus, it’s kind of pretentious to drink that stuff at a club. Or anywhere. Tasha and I exchanged a look and waved away the bartender when he offered us some as well. Instead, we got some plain old dark beers. The bartender popped the tops, and we swigged and surveyed the landscape.

  The place was filling up nicely with half-shaved heads, shiny faux leather, and lots and lots of brightly colored pants. It sort of made it look like a bunch of neon crayons were shuffling on the dance floor.

  The music continued its relentless beat and, after a few sips of beer, I caught myself bopping along a little. Tasha tugged my arm and nodded her head towards the dance floor. I downed the rest of my beer and decided it was time to just get over it already.

  It turns out dancing is pretty fun. I know, obvious, right?

  Of course, I’m not a good dancer. I know no moves. I just sort of wiggled to the beat as best I could and tried not to flap my arms too much. Tasha wasn’t a ton better, which surprised me. But she did have this awesome hair-tossing move that looked spectacular every time she did it, almost like she was in slow motion. Her teal curls would cascade up and down and then she’d sway her hips in a way I could tell several of the dudes appreciated.

  For a while, we mainly danced together, laughing and not being able to hear a word the other said over the seamlessly mixed technopop. By then the dance floor was crowded with people, and being sweaty was pretty much the norm. A couple of guys tried to edge into our space but we always squeezed them out. We weren’t being mean; we just didn’t want the pressure. Most of them got the hint and danced off into the ether. But there was one guy who couldn’t seem to grasp that were not in the mood.