Disenchanted

by A. R. Miller

  A path clears and I’m feeling the whole celebrity vibe as we enter the dance floor to a flood of applause and cheers. Little flashes twinkle around us as cell phone cameras snap unflattering pictures. I mean really, those things are not only an annoyance, but take the worst photos ever. I’d rather a phone do what it’s meant to do, make and receive calls.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Meadow’s one and only four and a half star salon, Fey Creations,” he announces before cranking the volume.

  The adoration fades into the beat of the music. We’re all, but forgotten in a sea of gyrating bodies. There’s nothing left to do, but run for the hills, or join. I choose join. Even Dara’s mood lifts as our little group lets the music move us. Reminiscent of high school, small groups of girls dancing together—the only exceptions, we have a boy, and he and two of the girls never went to high school.

  One song slides into another and I find myself face to face with Ric Brand. He slips his hands around my waist so smoothly, I barely notice until I feel the gentle pressure of him guiding my hips in time with the music.

  It’s one of those songs that’s slow and yet up–tempo. Sensual, like my partner. All the lust I felt while cutting his hair comes flaring back. The feel of his chest under my hands. The music throbbing through me. Our bodies moving as one. Is this heaven? No, just The Meadows.

  Eyes closed, I feel a finger lift my chin and his lips brush against mine. That finger moves along my jaw line until all his fingers slide behind my neck twining in my hair. There is a searing flash of light behind my eyelids and the heat of a ninety–degree day against my flesh, the smooth sweetness of honey on my lips. A path of warmth follows his lips as they trace along my jaw to my ear, gently grasping the lobe.

  “My immaculate dream,” he whispers, before sliding down my neck, pausing at the pulse point, his hand massaging the back of my neck. The other hand slides from my hip, resting on my lower back, pulling me against him.

  Not that my body needs any help, or encouragement. What’s not to like? He’s a good dancer, sexy and knows the words to one of my favorite songs.

  My blood throbs, pushing away all thought, leaving only sensation. His lips move back to mine, crushing, insistent, his tongue like candy invading my mouth. The hand at my neck slides upward, cradling the back of my head. His other hand moves lower, persuasively crushing me against him.

  My hands rest on the sides of his face, my lips devouring his. His hand and hips, guiding mine to the beat of the music. I so want to take this off the dance floor, right back to my place.

  The fluttering in my stomach becomes a chunk of lead and the hair on my neck stands up with something other than desire. All the heat built up between us turns to ice as something sharp and pointy grazes my bottom lip. What in Hel’s Realm? So much for wanting to take him home.

  The music changes as fast as my mood, from slow and sensual to loud and chaotic. I give him a push. His confusion the last thing I see as I shove my way through the bump and grinders. Pressing palms against temples as his voice invades my brain, questioning, pleading. I hustle to the exit—not bothering to apologize as my elbows connect—lowering my hands only to open the door, stumbling into the warm stillness of the night.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I know the secret he and Dara share. I should have figured it out long before the feeling of fangs on flesh. He’s been mesmerizing me. The desire. The attraction. The need to touch him. Not just tonight, but also at the salon and even my dreams.

  If my own heart hadn’t been beating so damn hard I would have noticed the lack of his. I could have sworn I’d felt his beating as hard as mine. And speaking of hard. Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I can still feel him pressed against me.

  My body does a little shimmy as I recalled the trail of warmth left by his lips and hands. How is this possible? Another mind game? Dara’s hands are always chilled unless she’s fed recently. Maybe that’s it. He had a snack before I had contact with him. Probably the strangest is his ability to be out in the sun. Sure, he wore those dark glasses and kept his skin covered.

  The thing that bothers me most is the how I felt. Not the kiss, but what broke that kiss. A swirling mix of pleasure and pain rides me as my tongue touches where his fang grazed my lip. I sway as a wave of dizziness hits me and I end up back against the wall concentrating on breathing. My tongue digs at the tiny nick as the pressure builds, throbbing between my thighs. Each movement torturous blend of pleasure and pain as cloth rubs against overly sensitive nerve endings. Pulling my lip between my teeth I bite down and end up on the ground huddled against the wall.

  “Miss Fey, are you alright?”

  A perfectly legitimate question considering I’m sitting on the sidewalk panting like a dog in heat. I nod, even though it’s clear I’m not.

  Through a pre–orgasmic haze, I see a pair of black boots. Topping off those boots are jean clad legs, long legs, my eyes, of course, lingering inappropriately at what tops them. Swallowing I continue the journey, wishing a few more buttons were undone revealing the promise of rock hard abs. Skin as pale as mine—minus the slight greyish hue—peaks out above the open collar. Shaggy black hair frames a face lovely despite its ruggedness and eyes that match the deep blue of his shirt. Brand’s companion.

  I can’t really wrap myself around the why of it, but those eyes and the curl of his lips hold a hint of disdain. Maybe he senses what’s wrong with me, or he’s upset because I ran out on his friend. Either way it would be rude of me not to take the offered hand. That and I need some help standing.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from both of us as a winter dry shock snaps when his hand wraps around mine. He pulls me up with enough force that I slam against his chest. Bracing electricity tingles through the thin fabric of my shirt and I see lust in those beautiful bedroom eyes as my nipples tighten.

  Stern lips hover so close they draw me like a magnet and I brush mine against them. From flurries to blizzard, a low guttural growl deep in his throat as he sandwiches me between him and the wall. His hands braced on either side of my head, lips greedily consuming mine, icy cool, the first snowflakes of winter on the tongue.

  One hand grips his hair pulling, his lips closer. The other meanders down a well-defined chest and around a firm waist, until it holds a muscular cheek in its grasp. That seems the invitation he needs to show me how much he likes it, like the battering ram against my stomach isn’t enough indication.

  He pushes off the wall, grasping my arms to keep me from ending up back on the ground. I realize the pounding in my ears isn’t my pulse, but a techno beat, when the door swings shut and a group of partiers giggle as they pass us.

  “Get a room,” one tosses over his shoulder, followed by his girlfriend proclaiming him jealous.

  “Perhaps I should escort you home.”

  A cruel chill wraps itself around me, no longer the tantalizing thrill of winter’s first touch, but the harsh reality of its dangers.

  I nod, unable, or maybe unwilling to speak. Luckily, he keeps hold of my arm as I turn toward home. Knees of jelly do not good balance make.

  “It’s only a couple of blocks.”

  He nods. Maybe it’s his turn to be unable, or unwilling to speak. Guilt? He has nothing to feel guilty about, I’m the sleaze kissing two complete strangers tonight. Two very hot—well, one was hot, the other icy cool—strangers. Talk about polar opposites.

  It’s a struggle, but I manage to keep from laughing when we come to the corner. School crossing guards come to mind as he bars me from crossing, looks both ways, then motions it’s safe.

  He finally releases the death grip on my arm at the door leading to my apartment. There’s the slightest twist to his lips and that hint of aversion is back in his eyes as I fumble for my keys. He waits long enough for me to unlock the door and step inside, then turns and leaves. You’d think a girl you whose throat you just stuck your tongue down would at least rate a goodbye.

  The protective wards prickle
across my skin as I flip the locks. The big bad world is still out there, even in small town Iowa. Twenty years ago, I might not have given the locks a second thought, but not in today’s age. Why leave an open invitation? Even if I did forget, the wards would let me know if anyone not on the list entered, with something more than that minor prickling. My private space is invitation only.

  Shadows cast by streetlights shining through the tiny window lengthened and twist along the walls of the narrow staircase. Ankle high lights illuminate the treads adding an eerie glow to the already horror movie–esque feel.

  This is my home, my safe haven. The heavy revolving lump in my stomach should not be there. My feet shouldn’t be wavering between darting up the stairs, or back outside.

  Gripping the handrail I pull myself onto the first step then another. My attempt at a calm, steady gait fleeting like the light the higher I go. I do a little hop, skip as the shadows reach further along the walls and steps. Feather light and slick, something briefly wraps around my bare arm. Shadows move. They’re supposed to move when they are cast by moving objects, namely me. They don’t reach out and touch you.

  Deep breaths, meant to be calming become panting as I take the stairs two at a time, reaching my apartment in record time. Shaking fingers fumble the keys and my head smacks the door when I retrieve them. Finally, I manage to insert the key and turn both it and the knob. Stumbling inside I slam the door and lean against it shaking so hard it rattles against the frame. C.C. sits directly in front of me, eyes narrowed, ears back, tail twitching, staring.

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, between breaths, “I should have turned on the hall light.”

  I’ve never had to use it because of fear of the dark. I touch my forearm and the shaking intensifies. I’m not afraid of the dark, but what lurks in the dark is another story. Like shadows that reach out and touch you.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There’s nothing worse than the phone’s shrill ring ripping you out of bed. Except, maybe, an idiot banging on the door.

  “Hello.” A little breathless after searching and finding the phone wedged under the chair cushion. Why is it you can never find it when you need to?

  “Miss Fey?”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands as I realized who it is.

  “Yes.” I try to sound casual, but it comes out all squeaky. Worse than a damn high school girl with a crush.

  “This is Ric Brand.”

  Did I detect a note of amusement, or am I reading too much into it as always?

  “If there is a problem with your cut you can call the salon tomorrow.”

  “No, no problem at all. I wanted to call and apologize for last night. I took liberties that were not mine to take. I would like to ask you to dinner. That is if you have not already dined.”

  I nearly drop the phone. Dinner? Was I going to be a main course, or an appetizer?

  “Mr. Brand, your apology is accepted, but I have to decline. It’s unprofessional to date clients.”

  “Do not think of it as a date, just two people who happen to be sharing a meal.”

  Maybe it’s just my imagination and guilt, but I can feel the unspoken words. You didn’t think it unprofessional to dance with one last night, or to kiss him.

  “Miss Fey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you consider sharing the evening meal with me?”

  “I’ve already eaten—would you consider a cup of coffee?”

  He chuckles. “That sounds delightful. When and where?”

  “Say in an hour at Midnite Expresso?”

  “I shall see you then.”

  The line goes dead with a click, no turning back now. Great, I’m going to have a delightful cup of joe with a vampire elf.

  ***

  The rich scent of my favorite caffeinated beverage sends trickles of pleasure across my skin as I step inside. Is there anything better than coffee? Chocolate maybe and sex ranks very close I suppose.

  The interior of Midnite Expresso isn’t your usual trendy coffee shop. No tiny tables with uncomfortable chairs, or those long bars with stools and computer jacks. Think of it more like your kitchen with mismatched dining sets, or your living room with chairs you can curl up in with a good book.

  I wave to a few regulars and the staff before acknowledging my date, sitting at a table with his back to the corner.

  “Miss Fey.” He rises from his seat and pulls out a chair for me. “Thank you for joining me.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Brand.” Visions of Count Dracula surface with his formal tone and slight accent. What’s with the ancient manners? Not that I’m complaining, I just assumed it a lost art. I force a giggle into a smile and sit down before it can escape.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he says, sitting back down.

  Two cups of steaming brew sit on the table, the one in front of me the perfect shade of caramel, the other black.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for us. I guessed you liked cream.”

  Yet another liberty he’s taken. I’m starting to get a picture of someone very used to getting exactly what he wants, and not above taking it if it isn’t given, then apologizing after. It’s a little—okay, a lot—unnerving, that he knew how I took my coffee. I wonder if he knows I prefer iced when the Iowa humidity starts to rise.

  The smile gracing his face causes the blood in my temples to thud, far too intimate, like someone who knows your deepest darkest secrets. I’m reminded of the invading voice from last night. I have to work on those mental shields. The last thing I need is someone using my own thoughts against me, even if it is just how I take my coffee.

  I gulp down a mouthful of my drink in hopes of rinsing away the foul taste of fear. It didn’t work. My eyes water, accompanying the burn I just gave myself. Lovely, two more things I don’t need right now, a lisp and runny mascara.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Candy cleaning a nearby table. She flicks her head in his direction and nods, licking her lips. Okay, it’s a little more than possible that she told him how I take my coffee.

  My emotions are somewhere between fear and desire for the man across from me. I’m so wrapped up sorting out the two that I miss everything he’s said. I see his lips moving, but haven’t heard a word.

  “I asked if you were alright. The coffee is extremely hot,” he repeats.

  Gods, I need to learn to pay attention, but something about this guy gets me thinking with the wrong part of my anatomy. All I can do is nod, my tongue still feeling like a bad case of road rash.

  There’s that smile again, accompanied by a gentle pat on the hand. Now I feel like a two–year–old. I don’t know which is worse fear, toddler mode, or the tingling between my thighs that shows up when he smiles.

  The pat turns into a caress as he pulls away. I fight like hel to suppress the shiver forcing its way up from the soles of my feet. I need to stay on track.

  “So,” I say, fighting the urge to wince when my tongue protests. “What brings you to The Meadows, Mr. Brand?” What I want to ask is why he hid his vampiric nature, but even I’ll admit it’s none of my beeswax.

  “After last night you would think you would remember to call me Ric,” his tone is teasing and those hypnotic eyes twinkle.

  I so don’t need a reminder of last night. Too late, warmth creeps up and through my body. Great, my face now matches the red of my tee–shirt. “Sorry. What brings you to The Meadows, Ric?”

  His laughter causes greater havoc than his smile, a tremor starts in my lower extremities and radiates upward. Blood vessels constrict and parts that should stay hidden in polite company show themselves in all their glory. I can’t tell if it’s a natural reaction, or some kind of compulsion. Either way I need to learn some control. Luckily, he’s either not interested in my perkiness, or polite enough to hide it.

  “I came to visit a friend.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew anyone here.” Duh, as if I know anything about him, but I’m guessing this
friend is the döckâlfar I saw him with last night.

  “My friend does not live in The Meadows; he owns property outside the city limits.”

  “Do I know him? I mean, has he been to the salon, or could I have met him somewhere else in town?” Not like I can come out and ask ‘gee is he the one I put the lip lock on outside the club last night?’ that would be rude.

  “I doubt that. He prefers to keep to himself and lives primarily off the land.”

  “Interesting.” I toy with my cup, remembering the feel of that wintery kiss so different from Ric’s and yet not. Both filled with lust and a feeling of being devoured. But one fueled by flame and joint passion, the other by a chilling animalistic hunger. The memory of the dog standing at Ric’s side outside my window flashes through my feeble little brain.

  “Very, the man has quite the green thumb, grows tomatoes the size of softballs.” He chuckles.

  “That’s impressive, but I hope they taste as good as they look.” Iowa is a farm state, but that’s not the kind of living off the land I imagined. If my suspicions of him being the ‘dog’ I saw are right, living off the land would entail hunting. Not of the orange vest variety.

  “Oh, they do, trust me. They make a hel of a marinara sauce and with his venison meatballs it is like...let us just say every bite is a delight to the senses.”

  A nervous laugh escapes as little four–legged meatballs fuel my imagination. “So spaghetti and meatballs is what brought you to The Meadows.”

  “That among other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “He also makes a great martini. Your coffee should be cool enough to drink now.”

  After taking a sip, I carefully set the cup down, wrapping my shaking hands around it. I feel him studying me, but fight the desire to look into those mesmerizing amber eyes.

  “Let me ask you something,” he says, finally lifting the heavy silence. “How well do you know Miss Kanika?”