The Vampire Next Door

by Natalie Vivien

  This room...

  It's Lare's bedroom.

  I should have realized it was her bedroom, but my mind is operating at about ten-percent reliability. And if my brain were a computer, its screen would be frozen right now. Time to reboot.

  I try to shove my hands into my pockets, but of course Sharon's miniskirt doesn't have pockets, so I cross my arms over my stomach and glance around the space self-consciously.

  It's a spare but elegant room. Lovely, really. There's a tea-colored lace coverlet on the bed, and the walls are painted a soothing, pale shade of lavender. On top of the antique dresser sits a full-bloomed orchid in a painted Spanish pot. The orchid's flowers are such a soft, dreamy hue of purple that they take my breath away. A grow light is positioned just above the pot, and the light filtering through the petals makes them look as if they're glowing from within.

  They're so beautiful...

  But my eyes are drawn, as if by gravity, to a much more beautiful sight.

  Lare stands beside her bed, and—with startling casualness—she peels off her lacy blue tank top, revealing the blush pink satin bra underneath.

  I hold my breath, stunned; time stands still. Motionless, I stare at her—I can't stop staring at her—and my heart knocks against my ribs as she turns away from me, unhooking the clasp on her tight black pants and pulling them down over her hips, shimmying her long legs free.

  “Just give me a minute to get dressed,” Lare says, smiling sweetly, and not at all shyly, at me over her bare shoulder. “You can sit down on the bed, if you'd like.”

  I lick my lips and consider sitting but find I can't quite convince my muscles to move. Every part of me is focused on her, on Lare: the soft slopes of her arms, the hourglass curves at her waist, the lean planes of her smooth, toned thighs... The way that her curls drift over her back, casting shadowy tendrils on her faintly pink skin.

  The room is dim, the blinds drawn, the only illumination cast by the grow light on the dresser, but when Lare turns again, lips parted as if she's about to say something to me, a strange expression flickers over her face, and her eyes trail my length—slowly, languorously—taking in my appearance. And my uncomfortable, embarrassing, concert-going clothes.

  “Wow,” she breathes, her French accent thick, her eyes dark and wide. I hear her draw in a breath and then let it out in a quiet sigh. “Courtney...” She turns to face me fully, sharp teeth visible between her parted lips.

  Beneath her gaze, I don't blush; I burn.

  Lare, standing so strong, so sure, in only a bra and panties, rakes her gaze over me again, looking surprised, amazed, as if I'm the one who just undressed in front of her.

  She's staring at me.

  With...longing.

  Just as I'm staring at her.

  We watch one another, the warm air sizzling, alive, between us as I take in a deep breath, as I rock back on my heels, trying to lock my knees to prevent myself from collapsing to the floor. This is too much, too intense... Beneath the heat of her gaze, something hatches inside of me, something bursting to life—vital and thriving. It's want, want like I've never felt it before.

  Lare licks her lips. “You look beautiful, Courtney,” she tells me, her voice soft and low, her eyes glinting with silver shards.

  I laugh self-consciously, shaking my head, even as my full-length blush deepens. “This is my sister's style, not mine.” I glance down at myself and lift my shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “Sharon didn't want me to embarrass her at the concert, so she forced me to borrow her clothes.” My lips twist to one side in a pained smile.

  “The outfit suits you.”

  “I... Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

  Lare's shimmering gaze lingers over me for a moment longer. My heart thunders wildly within me, its rhythm a stampede. I feel exposed, but more than that, I feel seen. As if those shifting silver-blue eyes can take in more than my surfaces, as if they can penetrate me to my deepest core.

  After a slow, suspended moment, Lare turns away from me, almost regretfully.

  “I...just need to change. One moment.” Her words are a near whisper. With silent footsteps, she moves into her en suite bathroom and closes the door.

  My knees feel so wobbly, so weak that all I want to do is sink down onto the edge of the bed, but that seems impossible now, inconceivable. I can't sit on Lare's bed, where she sleeps, dreams... I am already so bewitched. Under her heated gaze, I had begun to forget everything. I had begun to forget that Mia and I haven't officially broken up. I had begun to forget that I have principles. I have never cheated on anyone in my life, and I'm not going to start now, even if my girlfriend is cheating on me.

  But when Lare steps out of the bathroom, my tenuous grasp on my principles begins to loosen again. I feel like a kid desperately trying to catch the kite string that slipped out of her fingers, and as more and more time passes, the kite grows smaller and smaller against the sky...

  Lare is wearing a fitted black button-down shirt and skinny black jeans that taper at the ankles. Every hard line and muscle, every soft curve, is outlined, emphasized, by her outfit. Her red hair spills over her shoulders in shining waves, and her eyes are outlined in thin sweeps of black.

  She looks sexy, confident, mysterious.

  Like a rock star.

  A vampire rock star.

  “So...” Lare smiles at me disarmingly, lifting her chin as she steps forward, her eyes flashing with a sharp, dangerous glint of desire. My gaze fastens to her white, pointed teeth. “What do you think?” she asks me simply, spreading her arms wide before positioning her hands on her hips. “Will this do for the concert?”

  “Yes,” I tell her, mouth dry. “Yeah. I mean, you look...amazing.”

  “Merci.”

  If circumstances were different... If there were no Mia between us, and if I were brave enough, daring enough, reckless enough, I would push Lare down on the bed right now. I would climb on top of her, claim her mouth, her neck, taste her, learn her—but I can't do that. I shouldn't even be thinking about doing that. I fist my hands at my sides and swallow; then I offer Lare a wavering smile. “My friend—my friend Azure,” I force out, “she's going to go on stage soon, in about thirty minutes or so. We have to... I mean, if you don't mind, we should get on the road.”

  Lare lets out a small sigh, but she nods vaguely and straightens her back. “Yes, of course. Yes, we must go,” she agrees quietly, sweeping a black clutch purse off of the bed and leading the way as we wend through the house and aim for the front door. She pats Helly's head and then slides her feet into a pair of knee-high, skin-tight boots before we go outside together.

  Her car—two-door, violet, European—is sleek and expensive, in comical contrast to my mustard yellow clunker in the neighboring driveway. I gaze at Colonel Mustard forlornly. I suppose I should be grateful to that infuriating lemon, because if he hadn't refused to cooperate, I would have never experienced these sensual minutes with Lare. I wouldn't be sharing a car ride with her now.

  I glance sidelong at my elegant companion, with her lustrous waves draping like satin against her cheek, with her lean silhouette clad all in black.

  And something in me rises. Something forceful, determined, new.

  Lare clicks the unlock button on her key ring, and I step forward, sweeping open her driver's-side door, feeling like a tuxedoed male lead in an old black-and-white movie. I'm tempted to say something cliché, like milady or after you, but I'm too nervous to speak; all of my energy is focused on maintaining some—admittedly small—semblance of coolness. So I hold my tongue as I hold the door, tilting my head with an impish smile and a raised brow, urging her with a nod of my head to climb inside of the car.

  But Lare doesn't climb inside, and she doesn't return my smile. She meets my gaze with desire in her eyes—bare, hot, piercing desire.

  For me.

  She moves, leans forward, her hip now pressed against my hip, and for a still, sacred moment, I think/fear/hope/believe that she's
going to close the distance between us and kiss me.

  But, instead, she tears her eyes from mine and slides into the driver's seat, averting her gaze to the view through the windshield. “Thank you,” says Lare, her voice low, husky.

  Dazed, I close the door gently and walk around to the other side of the car, feeling hot and ashamed.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Flirting.

  I'm flirting.

  And I've got to stop.

  It's time for some evasive action. “How is everyone at work coping with the kidnappings?” I ask her, effectively killing the mood, once I've joined her in the car and fastened my seat belt.

  Lare shakes her head as she turns on the engine; it purrs obediently, like any well-behaved engine should. “We've heard nothing, no news,” she says, anguish softening her voice. “It has been so difficult, Courtney. Everyone goes about their daily tasks, but there is so much fear.” Her face hardens as she pulls out onto the road. “Still, we must prevail. We must. The work we are doing is too important, and everyone knows this, which is why we continue on, day and night, as if nothing has happened. But we keep glancing over our shoulders, wondering,” she says, wincing, voice raw, “who will be next.”

  “Lare, I'm so sorry.” I reach across the space between us and place my hand on her denim-clad leg. A reassuring gesture, nothing more, performed out of mindless habit: I've done the same thing to Azure and Sharon countless times in the past, when they were in need of comfort.

  But the moment my palm connects with Lare's thigh, a jolt of electricity lances my fingers, like a static shock gone nuclear, and I realize my mistake. A mistake that, for some reason, I can't correct. I feel as if there's a magnet locking my palm to her leg.

  Lare pulls to a stop at the approaching red light; then she licks her lips and, very deliberately, turns her head to look at me. That's all she does, looks at me, but a rush of desire burns through my veins. So sudden, so hot, I feel as if my blood is boiling...

  The light turns green, and Lare's foot remains on the brake, and my hand remains on her thigh.

  “The light's changed,” I tell her softly.

  “Oh.” She blinks several times, as if she's coming out of a trance. Then she gazes up at the streetlight and presses down on the gas pedal, silent, propelling the car onward, toward our destination.

  I feel the muscles of her leg moving beneath my palm, and it's too intimate, too close, so I draw my hand back and face forward, arms crossed tightly over my stomach.

  The concert is at the Edge Dome, a sprawling music venue that used to be home to the local orchestra, before they were shut down due to low attendance. Now the arena, in an unfortunate twist of irony, is dedicated to local rock concerts and touring performances of big-name music stars. The Dome is situated at the very edge of the city, which gave it its name—and allows it to offer a lot of parking space to its ticket holders.

  The parking attendant, wearing a fluorescent yellow vest, stands at the entrance of the huge lot, waving people in with an orange, hand-held flag. After driving past several packed aisles of bumper-to-bumper cars, Lare finds an empty space, swings into it, and we both hurriedly climb out, our boot heels clicking on the blacktop.

  I draw a deep breath of night air into my lungs. The temperature cooled considerably during our drive, and that coolness brings me back to myself, clears my head, helps me focus.

  You still have a girlfriend, I remind myself miserably, repeating the words in my head like a mantra as I glare toward the bright lights of the arena.

  Apparently, the universe is compelled to remind me of my coupledom, as well.

  Because Mia is waiting for me at the gate leading into the Dome.

  I see her, and I feel the whole world fall away.

  I'm floating like a soap bubble, weightless—and at any moment, I might pop.

  No. This doesn't seem real. This can't be happening...

  I don't want this. I don't want a confrontation. Not now. Not tonight.

  But there's going to be a confrontation as soon as Mia catches a glimpse of the woman beside me. I could never forgive myself if Mia said something to wound Lare.

  Lare, who's walking blithely at my side, unaware of my inner implosion. I glance at her, and she smiles softly, excitement sparkling in her silver-blue eyes. She looks so beautiful, so eager, and so deservedly relaxed.

  No.

  I won't let Mia hurt Lare, not ever.

  “I can wait for you here, Lare.” My voice sounds high, strained. “Why don't you go buy your ticket?” I gesture toward the ticket counter to our left.

  But, already, it's too late.

  I feel it—this sinking sensation in my stomach—before I see it: Mia, peering through the crowd with her wide, brown eyes, spotting us. Both of us.

  “What are you doing?” Mia shouts, her rage audible even over the boom of the music vibrating from within the Dome.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper, and Lare glances at me worriedly.

  “What's wrong, Courtney?” she asks in her soft, smooth French accent.

  I can't reply, can't shift my gaze. Mia stalks toward us stiffly, anger making her face pale to a corpse's pallor.

  Reflexively, I step in front of Lare. I can feel my own anger rising, can taste its bile in my throat.

  “Lare,” I whisper through gritted teeth, “please go buy your ticket, okay?”

  Lare's shimmering eyes narrow as she glances from me to Mia, who's making a beeline toward us, her fists balled, her brows narrowed darkly, as she stomps, stomps, stomps her high-heeled boots.

  “Are you all right, Courtney?” Lare asks quietly.

  “Yes. I mean, no, but...” I sigh, shaking my head, gaze still fixed on Mia's white, furious face. “Can you, um, give us a moment?” I shift my eyes to Lare, beseeching her, and she nods hesitantly, flicking her silver, flashing gaze to Mia once more before stepping away, angling toward the ticket counter with her hands shoved deep into her jeans pockets.

  “Okay, Mia, you need to calm down,” I whisper, when Mia stops in front of me, eyes wild and nostrils flaring.

  She stares at me, chest rising and falling in a long, deep breath. When she speaks at last, her voice is sharp, curt. “I was supposed to come here with you, remember? We had a date.” Lips curled up in a smirk, she makes a show of taking in my appearance, flicking her eyes over my length with a raised brow. “What is this, the new Courtney Banks? Here with your new girlfriend?”

  “Mia, it isn't—”

  “Are you sleeping with her?” she snaps, so loudly that Lare and the dozen people surrounding us could have easily heard her, though they are all too polite—or too distracted by the music—to glance our way.

  “Look at you, all dressed up like a pretty goth princess.” Mia crosses her arms as she rakes her eyes over me again, sneering. “Have you turned into a vampire groupie?”

  “You're one to talk about groupies,” I reply coldly. “You've become Drew Yarrow's sycophant.”

  As Mia takes a step back, hurt brightening her shadowed eyes, she lifts her chin and bares her neck, which I can't help but notice is covered in love bites. Hickies. Hickies that I certainly didn't give her.

  They almost look like bruises.

  My heart somersaults in my chest, but I gulp down my pain and whisper, “Quite a collection you've got there, Mia.”

  “What?” Following the direction of my gaze, Mia pales further and ducks her chin back down, awkwardly drawing up the hem of her t-shirt in a vain attempt to conceal her telltale throat. She shakes her head, eyes slitted furiously. “You know what, Courtney? You don't know anything about Drew and me!” She almost sounds petulant, like a little girl trying to convince her mother that sugar actually is good for her, that she should be allowed to eat an entire birthday cake if she that's what she wants to do.

  I inhale a shaky breath, slammed by the realization—in one cold, hopeless moment—that everything that I had imagined Mia and Drew were doing with one another w
as probably eerily close to the truth.

  “You're right,” I say hoarsely, my eyes unfocused, my whole body chilled, covered in goosebumps. “I don't know anything about you, Mia. I thought I knew you.” I search her face, trying to find some trace of the woman I once thought I loved. But there's nothing familiar about her. There's nothing for me to hold onto anymore.

  “Well, people change,” Mia mutters despondently, staring at her shoes.

  “Yeah,” I agree, in a stronger, more convicted tone, “they do. And I tried to talk to you about this before, Mia. I don't think there's any sense in second—or third—chances. We've used up all of our chances, both of us. It's time for us to admit to ourselves that we just don't work. We don't fit into one another's lives. There's just...” I lift my arms, letting them fall uselessly against my hips. “There's nothing left.”

  Mia's eyes are wide enough to rival the full moon rising above our heads. She takes a step nearer to me, begins to reach for my hand but stops herself, biting down on her lip. “I'm not sleeping with Drew, Courtney,” she blurts out defensively. “If that's what this is about—”

  “Don't—”

  “Okay, yeah, we've kissed...and...and we've done a little more than kissing, but just a little. I swear. We haven't—”

  “Just stop.” My heart aches so sharply that I press my fingers to my chest. “We have to just...stop.” I feel so hot; my head is pounding. The lights from the arena are blurs, zigzags of blue and red and green.

  “Please, Courtney. I still love you—”

  I choke out a hoarse laugh. “I don't even know what that means,” I tell her, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “And I don't think you know, either.”

  We stand in uncomfortable silence for seconds that yawn into minutes. Finally, Mia's phone rings inside of her purse, ding-dinging loudly, startlingly. With a curse, she fishes her cell out of her bag and glances at the illuminated screen.