I laughed. "You're so full of shit your eyes are brown."
"They are brown," he admitted, taking me in his arms. He kissed me for such a lovely long time, I forgot about Margaret. Marjie. Whoever.
"This really isn't the time or place," I muttered into his mouth as he lowered me to one of the phenomenally uncomfortable couches in the parlor.
"I'll have ample notice if someone is coming," he said, pulling open my blouse and yanking my pants down to my knees.
"What if I'm the one coming?" I teased, caressing the bulge in his trousers.
He groaned. "Don't do that unless you want to be finished before we start."
"Eric, you're talking like a man who's being neglected."
He braced himself over the couch, unzipped his fly, pulled my panties aside, and slid into me, neat as a magic trick. "I am neglected," he murmured in my ear. "Whenever I'm not inside you, I'm neglected."
"That's really lame," I whispered back. I braced a heel on the couch arm and met his thrusts. "And we're gonna break this couch."
Fuck the couch.
That thought—cool and uncaring, but hot at the same time—pretty much did me in; I heard something crack in the couch and then I was coming, clutching at Eric while his voice ran through my head, a vivid whisper of longing.
O my own my Elizabeth my Queen 1 love love love love…
I hope he "loved" fixing couches, because that was probably next on our agenda.
He groaned and collapsed over me, which elicited a groan of my own. "Kill me," he mumbled. "I'm an old man, and you're trying to kill me."
"Hey, this wasn't my idea, pal. And you're still in your prime. Your immortal dead guy prime." I giggled.
"Are you laughing at me, darling?"
"No, Eric," I said gravely, biting my lower lip so I wouldn't do it again.
"It would crush my tender emotions to know you were laughing at me during this vulnerable time."
"I'd never do that, Eric. So what was it like, inventing the telegraph?"
He chased me up the stairs, and I made a mental note to have someone take a look at that couch later in the week.
Chapter 15
It was about five A.M., and I was getting ready for bed (finally! what a long, weird day) when there was a brisk rap-rap at my bedroom door.
"Come on in," I called, buttoning the last button on my new jammies. Aw, they were so soft, so sweet to the touch…
Jessica opened the door and stuck her head in and then groaned when she saw me. "Jeez, Betsy! I'll buy you frig-gin' decent pajamas, okay? You don't have to wear those pieces of shit."
"What?" I cried. "These are brand-new."
"Yeah? What's Sinclair say about them?"
"What part of 'brand-new' aren't you getting? He hasn't seen them yet."
"He sees those, the wedding's off."
"Oh, shut the hell up." I stepped to the mirror and admired the navy blue flannel and red polka dots. They were too long in the pants and arms (I'd found them in the men's section, where I frequently shopped because I was so fucking tall), but a few washings should take care of that. And they were warm. "You didn't come up here to critique my nightwear. At least I hope you didn't. Because, really, how lame would that be?"
"No, I sure didn't. But I could sure spend half the night doing it."
"This from someone who wears football jerseys to bed."
"Totally different thing."
"I think I liked it better when you weren't talking to me."
"Too late now. Listen, I wanted to catch you before you guys went to bed—where is Sinclair?"
"He made a beeline for the computer after ole Long in the Tooth and 'Tude left."
"Huh. He used to practically count the seconds before you went to bed so you guys could do it."
"We already did," I admitted, "after Maggie left."
"Yet another room you defiled. And Maggie would be the vampire he didn't want me to meet?"
I shuddered. "Don't bitch, J. He was right. She's creepy. She's got eyes like a doll's."
"Barbie Doll or American Girl?"
"Blank." I gestured to my face, trying to convey in five words or less how creepy the woman had been. "Shiny."
"Shiny?" I could see Jess was trying not to laugh. She'd never met Nostro. In fact, I was the baddest vampire she'd ever met, after I'd read the Book of the Dead and gone evil. Which was to say, she'd never met a really bad vampire.
"She almost chomped Marc, and not only did he let her grab him, he didn't remember that she grabbed him. Stay the fuck away, I'm serious."
"Well, if Sinclair's worried about her, that's good enough for me. I've got enough creepy vampires to worry about." She plopped herself into what I always thought of as Marie's Chair. "Listen, are you okay with me going out with Detective Nick?"
"If you're gonna date him, you should probably get in the habit of referring to him just by his first name."
She waved that away. "Yeah, yeah. Are you?"
"Sure. Yeah. It was just a surprise, that's all. A good surprise," I added hastily. "Sinclair's right, somebody should have snatched you up ages ago."
She smiled thinly. "Yeah, well. Nobody's gotten around to it yet."
"I was just thinking that it had been a while for you… wasn't dave the last guy you were with?"
She nodded, fiddling with the neckline of her shirt. "Lowercase dave, yup, I remember."
"Okay, then. Look, we know Nick's nice, he's great at his job, he looks… yum. Go for it. But…"
I trailed off because I was torn. Did I warn my best friend that my fiancé was going to do everything in his power to make that relationship work because he was sneaky and that's how he operated? Nick might like Jessica for herself (or not; we hadn't established that yet), but Sinclair liked Nick for his badge.
Or did I keep quiet out of loyalty to my fiancé, the vampire king?
"But… ?" Jessica prompted.
"But… you… should… wear clean underwear."
She gave me an odd look. "Thanks for the tip."
"I gotta admit, I was kind of surprised you said yes."
She shrugged and picked a cloth pill off the arm of the chair. She was very fidgety tonight. "I dunno. It's great being with you guys and all, and living here, but the excitement of being best friends with the queen of the vampires doesn't exactly butter my muffin at night, you know? I mean in bed. Because we're all up and running around at night. But you know what I mean, right?"
"Sure. I hope it works out."
"With Sinclair on my side, how can it not?"
"I know! My God, was that weird or what?"
"You boy has a sinister metrosexuality going on," she agreed, "and that's a fact."
"That's one way of putting it. Oh, and get this! I have a job again. I'm writing a column for the new vampire newsletter."
"What did you just say?"
"I know!" I plopped down on the bed and propped my chin on my elbows, slumber-party-gossip style. "Can you believe it? Talk about practical. How totally unlike vampires to do something that doesn't involve beheadings or the mass slaughter of innocents."
"Maybe," she suggested, "it'll be an evil newsletter."
"Great. Something new to worry about. Which reminds me—"
There was a tentative knock on my door, one I knew well. "Come in, Jon!"
"Ooooooh," Jessica said, not looking at me. "I forgot to ask you how Sinclair reacted to the news of his roommate."
"It wasn't pretty," I mumbled back. Then: "Hi, Jon! You caught us. Everybody's about ready to turn in."
"Yeah… I just got up, actually. This is the one time of day that our schedules actually mesh."
"How interesting," Jess said sweetly, "that you've planned that out already. You've been here… what? A day?"
He looked flustered (and adorable!) as he stood in my bedroom doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, not the one time," he explained. "Because, you know, it's wintertime. So I'll still be awake when the sun
starts to go down, and—"
"Jon. My girl has to get ready for bed, and her fiancé's gonna be here any minute. So what's up?"
Not for the first time, I had the impression Jessica didn't much care for Jon.
"I, uh, because I'm going to be in town, I had this idea. Actually, I got it at school. I'm taking a writing class at the U—"
"That'll come in handy on the farm."
"Jessica!" I gasped. What did she have against farmers? "Go on, Jon. We're all listening." I glared at her for good measure.
"Well, anyways, I was going to the U last year and then I went back home—"
"Which we already know…" Jessica prompted him by making the "speed up" motion.
"—anyway, today I re-registered, and one of my new classes is—well, last year I took a class called The Writing Sampler—and this year I want to focus on the bio class."
"—logy or graphy?" I asked, having trouble seeing where this was going.
"Oh. Biography."
"Is that the one where you write your life story?" I asked, delighted. Yes! Something to keep him busy, and off of me! And off Sinclair's radar, best of all. "What a great idea, Jon! You've lived an incredible life and you're, what? Fifteen?"
"Twenty," he said thinly. "And a biography is when you write about someone else."
"Uh-oh," Jess muttered.
"Oh. Then—oh. Oh! Uh…" I blinked rapidly and tried to keep my mouth from popping open. "Well, that's… really flattering."
"I think it'd be a great project."
"Jon, you can't write about her and then show it to all your little school chums. We're trying to keep a low profile, here."
"Oh, I know," he said with painful earnestness. "I already told my instructor—"
"You did what?" we screamed in unison.
"—that it was fiction. A fake biography about a fictional character. He loved the idea."
Then he's missing the point of the class, I thought but didn't say.
"I mean, come on, you guys. Who'd take it seriously anyway? 'Oh, here's a biography tell-all of a vampire who lives here in the Cities.' Of course he's going to assume it's a fake. In fact," he added proudly, "he can't wait to read it. Said in twenty years of teaching no one's come up with that idea before."
"You didn't come up with it, either!"
He ignored her and looked at me. "So will you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Tell me the story of your life."
I opened my mouth.
"No," Jessica said.
I looked at him.
"No," Jessica said. "Bets, I'm doing you the hugest favor of your life here, right now. No. I'm saving you so much trouble right now. From people. You know. No."
Jon glared at her. "It's not up to you."
"Isn't there a combine you should be changing the oil on?"
"Isn't there a benefit you should be chairing?"
"Come on, guys," I said automatically, thinking.
I knew what Jess was getting at; she was implying that Sinclair would totally flip his gourd. As he sort of had when I told him Jon was staying with us. What could be worse than that?
Aw, Sinclair wouldn't mind. He had more important things to worry about than Jon's schoolwork. Frankly, with vampires like Marjorie running around town, I was kind of surprised he even noticed Jon was here.
And Jon looked so adorably hopeful, so rumpled and sweet in his jeans and yellow "Luke, I'm not your father" T-shirt. And bare feet! My God, you could practically see the straw sticking out of his hair.
"Welllllllllll…"
"No."
"Maybe we could try it," I said. "Just to see how it goes. Maybe a couple chapters."
"Nooooooooooooooo!" Jessica yowled.
That's when Sinclair walked in. "What is going on in here?"
Chapter 16
"Jon wants to—"
"That was rhetorical; I heard the discussion on the way up the stairs." He strode into the room, put a hand on Jon's face, and shoved. Jessica darted to the door and actually had it open in time for Jon to stumble through it. She took one look at Eric, said, "Good night, guys," and went through the door herself, at a slightly more dignified speed.
"Sinclairrrrrrr!" I yowled. "You can't go around manhandling my friends that way. No wonder he doesn't think I should marry you."
"I know exactly why the infant thinks I shouldn't marry you." He had his back to me, staring at the shelves full of CDs. He'd been sleeping in here for a couple months, but he had yet to move any of his own things in. All his suits and underwear and toiletries (if a vampire needed such things) were in his own room down the hall.
Why had I never wondered what that meant before? That he came to fuck and then left? Unlike me, Eric could move around all day, provided he stayed out of direct sunlight. So I figured, anything was an improvement over all the fighting and massive sexual tension we'd always ever known. And because I assumed after the wedding we'd share a room, not just a bed.
I'd assumed other things before. About Eric. And been wrong.
Worst things first. "You're being a big baby about this. You were a jerk about him staying with us for a while-—"
"We are not the Super 8 Motel."
"Says one of the three people who moved in without paying a dime for the place! Or asking me! I at least sold my house for the down payment."
"It is childish to pretend it's the same thing," he sniffed. "I was the king, moving to an appropriate domicile to be at my queen's side. Jon is sniffing up your back trail like an addled bull in the pasture."
Wow. He was really mad. The farm metaphors only came out when he was superpissed.
"Eric, he's, like, twelve years younger than I am! I'd never go out with someone like that."
He turned away from the wall of Cool. His night attire, I couldn't help but notice, was exceptional: black silk pajama pants. And nothing else. I wished we could quit arguing so I could see if his nipples tasted as good as they looked. "You're sixty years younger than I am."
Nipples be damned! "What?"
"I said, you're sixty years younger than I am."
" Wh—buh—" I honestly never thought of it in terms like that anymore. I used to, when I was a brand-new vampire and he wanted me to choose between him and Nostro, but then I chose, and it's never come up since.
Unless Sinclair thinks it's time to make another choice…
"Look, Eric, you're just being…" I napped my hands helplessly. "Well, weird. You're being weird about this. It's you I love. Not Jon. Not Nick."
His eyes narrowed. "What does Nick have to do with anything?"
"I'm just saying! Everyone's so concerned about my love life, nobody's listening to me, to what I want. It doesn't matter how many Bees or cops end up living here; it doesn't change how I feel about you. I made my choice, you're who I want to be with. You! The sneakiest, creepiest, studliest guy I've ever known."
He unclenched a bit. "I suppose I must take that as a compliment."
"I don't care how you take it, but be nicer to Jon. Stop shoving him around; it just showcases your—I can't believe I'm using this word in reference to you—insecurity."
"That term is exactly why I haven't yet brought up the subject of your new sleepwear."
"What?" I spread my arms, like Christ on the cross. "You think I'm insecure and that's why I wear this stuff? You're on drugs! Don't you think the dots bring out my highlights?"
He grinned, started to say something, but then cut himself off and turned back to the wall of Cool.
"How have I not noticed these before?" he asked.
Because we appeared to be done fighting, I didn't say anything, but boy, I was thinking plenty. Like: well, if you came here for anything but sex, you'd probably notice all sorts of cool things.
"Various Hits of the Eighties. Cyndi Lauper." Sinclair was flipping through the top shelf of CDs. "Greatest Hits of Duran Duran. All Dance Hits of the Eighties. Eighties, Eighties, Eighties. More of the Jammin' Eighties. Madonna: True B
lue. The Pet Shop Boys. The Beastie Boys."
"What can I say? I'm eclectic."
"Yes. Eclectic. That wasn't the word that sprang to my mind, I admit."
"Don't tell me you're one of those music snobs." But of course, he was. Nothing in his car but Rachmaninoff.
"No, no. The wedding's off."
"What?"
"I said, you have to take that off."
"Oh." Weird vampire hearing. It was either really good or really bad. "Okay, okay. Do you want to borrow—"
"No!"
"All right, don't yell." I moodily started unbuttoning my flannel top. "And stop pushing Jon around, I mean literally pushing him. How'd you like it if he put his big ole farm boy mitts on your face and shoved?"
"I would love that," Sinclair replied with scary sincerity.
"Is that the stench of a dead goat I smell, or your testosterone? Cripes, throttle back. Besides, you're missing my point. I'm in here with you, aren't I? I don't go to Nick's place or climb into Marc's bed—I notice you're not weird about Marc—"
"Is that supposed to be a joke? I'd be infinitely more worried about Marc if we were the same suit size."
Hmm, good point. Moving on! "Maybe one of my undead superpowers is to make gay people straight, but I don't see you worrying too much about it."
"No," he agreed, sitting on the edge of the bed and drumming the fingers of his left hand on his right knee. "I don't worry too much about it."
"Right!"
"Also, you are not undressing nearly quickly enough."
"And I'm not in the Bee's bed, wherever that one even is—"
"Second floor. Third one down the hall, right side."
"See? I should be worried about you sleeping with him, you're so obsessed."
"Territorial," he conceded. "Not obsessed."
"But it's you I want to be with—did we not figure this all out in October?" I waved my arms, which, as I was unbuttoning, napped like a clothesline in a windstorm. "It's your voice I hear in my head, nobody else's. That should prove you've got nothing to worry about."
"What?" Oh, fuck.
Chapter 17
"Now, don't freak out." Stupid, stupid! I'd meant to tell him, but not like this. I was thinking more along the lines of giving him a giant cookie frosted with "I can hear you in my head, lover!" Maybe for Valentine's Day. Twenty years from now.
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