by Rachel Caine
“I know,” she said, and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
They sat there together for a long time. Eve and Michael looked in on them from time to time. After a while, they quit looking, and Claire saw them head upstairs.
The house grew quiet.
“It’s cold,” Shane finally said. She was getting a little drowsy, despite the discomfort; his voice shocked her back upright again.
“Yeah, kinda. Well, it’s the floor.” Although it wasn’t really the floor’s fault, Claire supposed.
He considered that in silence for a few long seconds. “I guess it’s pretty stupid to sit here all night.”
“Maybe not. If it makes you feel better . . .”
He stretched out his legs with a sudden thump and sighed. “I don’t see how getting cold and losing feeling in my body is going to help. Also, I need a bed that isn’t a bunk, and hasn’t been the previous property of some dude named Bubba with a farting problem.”
That was—almost—the old Shane. Claire sat up straight and looked up at him. After a second, he met her eyes. He didn’t look happy, but he looked . . . better.
He was trying to be better.
“I forgot to say hello,” he said. “Back in Bishop’s office, when I saw you.”
“Given the circumstances, I think we can let that slide.” She swallowed, because he wasn’t looking away. “It’s been a while. Since . . . you know. Bishop put you behind bars.”
“I did notice,” he said, deadpan. “Are you asking if I have any wild men-behind-bars stories to tell you?”
“What?” She felt a blush start to burn along her jaw-line, then spill over her cheeks. “No! Of course not! I just . . . I don’t know if—”
“Stop stammering.”
“You make me stammer. You always have, when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m dessert.”
He licked her on the nose. She squealed and pulled back, swiping at the moisture, but then he was holding her, and his lips were warm and soft and damp, pressing on hers with genuine urgency. He didn’t taste like dessert, not at all; he tasted like she imagined really good wine would taste, dark and strong and going straight to her head. Her muscles warmed and purred where he touched her, and it felt like, just for a moment, there was nothing in the world.
Nothing but this.
He broke off the kiss and pressed his hot cheek against her burning one; she felt his breath fluttering the hair above her ear. She felt him draw in a breath to say something, but she got there first.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t tell me all the reasons why this isn’t a good time, or a good idea. Don’t tell me we ought to be thinking about your dad or my parents or what Bishop is doing right now. I want to be here with you. Just . . . here.”
Shane said, “Well, I don’t want to be here.”
The world went out of focus, and her heart shattered. She’d known it was coming; she’d known that he’d changed his mind, that all that time apart had given him time to think about what he wouldn’t like about her. . . . Why would somebody like Shane love her, anyway? He’d dated other girls. Better girls. Prettier and smarter and hotter. It had just been a matter of time before he noticed that she was a skinny geek.
But it hurt; oh God, it hurt so badly, like she’d been stabbed with a dagger made of ice.
She couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes, and she couldn’t hold back the sob. Shane went tense, and pushed her back to arm’s length. “What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
She wanted to tell him it was all right, but it wasn’t, it just wasn’t, and it never would be. She felt like half of her was dying, and he looked at her in confusion and acted like he didn’t understand what he’d done to her.
Claire scrambled away from him and bolted. It was usually Shane who ran away, but this time, she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stand to be here, humiliated and stupid and hurting, and try to be nice to him, even though he needed it. Maybe even deserved it.
“Claire!” Shane tried to get up, but his feet wouldn’t stay under him. “Dammit, wait—my legs went to sleep; wait! Claire—”
She didn’t wait, but somehow, he managed to follow her, lunging after her with feet that must have been like running on concrete blocks. He tripped into her and they fell onto the couch. Claire smacked at him and tried to struggle free. “Let go!” she said around her sobs. “Just let go!”
“Not until you tell me what just happened. Claire, look at me. I don’t understand why you’re upset!”
He really didn’t know. He was all but begging her to tell him. All right, then, fine. “Fine,” she said aloud, in a voice that trembled more than she wanted. “I get it. You don’t want to be with me right now. Maybe not ever. I understand, it’s been a long time, and . . . your dad . . . I just . . . I can’t . . . Oh, just let me go!”
“What in the hell are you talking about?” And then he got it. She saw him run it through his head, and his eyes widened. “Oh my God. Claire, you thought I meant I didn’t want—No. God, no. When I said, ‘I don’t want to be here,’ I meant I didn’t want to be there. You know, sitting on the cold floor with my ass turning into an ice-berg. I wanted you. I just wanted you somewhere else.” He shook his head. “I meant it as a joke. I was going to say, ‘I want to be on the couch.’ Okay, it was stupid, I know. Sorry. I never meant you to think—Wait. Why would you think I’m not into you, anyway?”
Because I’m a girl, Claire thought. She was barely able to contain the relief welling up inside her. Because we’re all stupid and insecure and think that we’re never, ever good enough. She didn’t say that, though. Some things it was better for boys not to know. “I just . . . It’s been a tough day.” She was still crying, and she couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m sorry, Shane. I’m sorry your dad—”
“Hey.” He touched her cheek. “It’s bad, but I can deal. I’m more worried about you.”
He always was. “Why?”
He wiped away the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “Because I’m not the one doing the crying, for one thing.”
She nodded, shuddered, and started to gulp back the sobs. He waited, holding her, until she was finally quiet—relaxed in a way she hadn’t been before.
Weirdly happy just to be here, with him, no matter what had happened or would happen. This moment, she thought. This moment is perfect.
“Shane?” she asked. She felt drowsy now, lazy in the warmth of his body.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any wild men-behind-bars stories?”
“Not really. Sorry to tease you,” he said, and traced his finger down her cheek and over her lips. Slowly. “You know I spent a lot of time thinking about you, don’t you? About how you look, how you smell, how you taste . . .”
“Creepy stalker boy.”
He kissed her. There was something new in it, something fierce and hot and wild, and she felt needs explode inside her she didn’t even recognize. Her whole body lifted, like she’d become metal to his magnet. Shane groaned and rolled her over on her back, his weight on top of her, and kept on kissing her like it was the most important thing in his world.
His lips left hers gasping for air, and traveled down her neck, around the collar of her T-shirt, and his hand dragged the fabric down to expose more skin to his kisses.
Off, Claire thought incoherently, and tried to pull the hem of her shirt up.
Shane’s hand stopped hers. She looked up at him.
“Not here,” he said. She waited. He looked wary. “What?”
“I was just waiting for you to say, ‘Not now,’ too. You know, like always.”
He smiled, and it was pure Shane—full of edges and yet oddly sweet.“Claire, I just got out of jail. Do you honestly think I’m bucking for sainthood or something?”
Her whole body burned with a sudden burst of furious energy. He just said yes. Oh my God. All she could think of to say was, “Tell me
how much you missed me.”
“Not everything needs a speech.” He was right about that. She could feel the wild energy in him, trembling right under his skin—a match for hers. “But I have to know, do you want to do this? Really?”
She’d been trying not to think about the scary mechanics of the moment. She’d asked Eve once, in that conspiracy-whisper voice girls used when they were embarrassed not to already know, whether or not the first time really hurt. Eve had said, very matter-of-factly, yes, and gone on to tell her all about her horrible first-time guy. So part of Claire’s body was dreading the unknown, and part of it was screaming to jump in, no matter what happened.
“Yes,” she said, and her whole body went quiet, stunned into silence. “Yes, Shane. I want to do this. I want to do it with you.”
He let out his breath in a shaky laugh. “Nobody else? Not even the hot nude guy from that movie? No? Okay. No pressure.” He gave her another kiss, this one fast and warm. “Upstairs?”
They slid off the couch together, hand in hand, and he led her up the stairs, looking back at her in warm glances, stopping every few steps to kiss her. By the time they made it to the top, she was tingling and shaking all over.
Shane pointed questioningly at his own door, but she shook her head. Her room was bigger, and it was at the end of the hall. More private.
He pulled in a quick, shaking breath. “Five minutes,” he said. “I need a shower.”
She nodded, although somehow being parted from him made it feel risky. They could change their minds at any second.
She opened her bedroom door as Shane went into the bathroom.
It hadn’t occurred to Claire, but she supposed that Eve could have turned her former bedroom into anything—a Goth wardrobe warehouse, for instance, filled with skull- themed outfits. Or storage for her growing collection of vampire-slaying implements. Instead, the room was just the way Claire had left it—neat, kind of sterile, no trace of her own stuff left behind. There was a layer of dust on the sparse furniture, and the air felt cold for a few seconds, then began to warm up, as if the house sensed her presence and was eager to make her welcome again.
The big, soft bed still had sheets and layers of blankets and comforters.
She closed and sat down on the bed. Her hands were cold and shaking, and now that Shane wasn’t here, she felt sense trying to knock itself back into her head.
No, she thought stubbornly. No, not this time.
It was less than five minutes before he came in, hair damp around his face, beads of water on his skin and dampening his shirt.
He leaned against the door after closing it, watching her.
“So,” he said. “Maybe I should just—”
“Shut up, Shane,” she said, and went to kiss him for a long, warm, lingering moment.
Then she reached behind him and locked the door. Just her and Shane, no friends banging on the door, no family ready to drag them apart. Not even a single vampire hiding in the shadows to spoil things.
For once, nothing to make either of them change their minds.
“Don’t you dare ask me again if I’m sure,” Claire said, and raised the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it off. The cold air glided over her flushed skin and made her shiver. She knew she was blushing, and she couldn’t stop trembling, but that was all right, somehow. As she dropped the shirt to the floor, she thought, He’s seen me like this before. It’s okay.
Shane sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her with absolute concentration. She toed off her shoes, stripped away her socks, unbuttoned her jeans and unzipped them, and kicked them off into the same pile.
He’s seen me like this before, too.
She reached behind her for the clasp of her bra. But not like this.
“Wait,” he said, and pulled his own shirt off. Beneath it, his skin was paler than she remembered, his muscles more defined underneath. “I just want to keep it even.”
She swallowed a nervous laugh. “Then you have to get rid of the pants.”
Shane grinned at her and leaned back to work the button and zipper. “Don’t blame me for the underwear,” he said. “It’s prison-issue.”
“I am so glad you didn’t say that before. Oh, and don’t say that to my parents, ever.”
Shane’s pants hit the floor, along with his shoes and socks. Claire’s gaze skimmed over him, and she felt dizzy at the sight of so much exposed skin.
“Come over here,” he said. “It’s cold.”
He folded back the covers and slid in. She followed, feeling awkward and made of angles that didn’t quite seem to know how to fit together.
Lying beside him felt strange and, at the same time, completely right. They lay inches apart, turned toward each other on their sides. Yearning, and not touching.
Shane lost his smile for a second. “You can tell me to stop anytime. Always.”
“I know.”
“I won’t be angry about that.”
“Shane—”
“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you something.”
“What?”
He reached out and touched the back of his hand to her face. “I love you.”
Somehow, she managed not to cry, although she knew he’d see the glitter of tears in her eyes. “You said it first this time.”
He looked relieved. “Yeah. Finally, huh?”
“Finally,” she whispered. “I love you, too.”
His arms pulled her against him, and she felt small and breathless and utterly secure. It was just a hug, a hug like all the other hugs . . . but it was different, too.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, and she felt his fingers press on her back. Oh—he was working the hooks on her bra. He’d had practice, some part of her noticed; the rest was too busy screaming in utter joy.
Then she wasn’t able to think about much at all.
It wasn’t like in the movies. In the movies, it was all graceful, pretty people and hot camera angles; in real life, it was a weird mix of tremendously exciting and totally awkward. Shane still had condoms in the wallet that he retrieved from his jeans. That was something they never showed in the movies (at least the ones Claire watched). He was kind of embarrassed about it, too. It made it feel real to her—a lot more real than all her old fantasies.
Shane asked a lot of questions, which felt odd at first, but then she realized that he was nervous, just as nervous as she was, and that was all right. He wanted to make her happy.
He did make her happy.
Despite what Eve had told her, the pain still came as a shock, leaping in an electric current through her entire body. If Shane hadn’t held her and helped her through it, Claire didn’t know how she would have felt about it later . . . but he did, and it got better.
And then it was all right.
And then it was amazing. She cried a little, and she didn’t even know why, except that the emotions were just too big for her. Too overwhelming.
“It’s different,” Claire whispered to him in the dark, as they lay there wrapped up together, warm and content. “It’s different from what I thought.”
“Different how?” He sounded suddenly worried. Claire kissed him.
“Good different. Different like it means something. Like right now—it doesn’t feel like we’re naked at all, does it?” She didn’t know why she said that, but it was true; she didn’t feel exposed with him. Just . . . accepted. “I’m not afraid with you. You know what I mean?”
He made a lazy uh-huh sound that meant he might possibly not be listening. “So it was okay.”
“Okay?” She rose up on one elbow to look down on him. “Is this you fishing for compliments on your hotness?”
“Why? Did I catch one?”
“Idiot.” She flopped back down and cuddled up against him. His hand caressed the small of her back in tiny circles. “I won’t lie to you: that was intense. And it hurt. But . . . yeah. It was . . . amazing.”
“I hate that it hurt,” he said. “Next time—”
> “I know. It wasn’t so bad, though. Don’t worry.” The warm cushion of his arm under her head felt like the best pillow in the world. “I feel different. Do I look different?”
Shane brushed hair back from her face. “It’s pretty dark in here, but yeah, I can see it.”
She felt her eyes widen. “You can?”
“Sure.” He traced a finger over her forehead. “Claire is not a virgin. Says so right there.”
She felt her cheeks and forehead heat up, and smacked his arm. “You are awful.”
“Ah, the truth comes out.”
“Seriously. I just feel . . . I do feel different. I feel like I’m someone else than I was before. You know?”
“Yeah,” he said somberly. “I know. But I feel like that every day I wake up in Morganville.”
She kissed him, and tasted the sadness in him. His sigh seemed to come all the way from his toes. “God, I needed you,” he murmured. “I can’t even tell you how many times I thought about this. The funny thing is, I don’t need you any less now. I think I need you more.”
That, Claire thought, was a pretty good definition of love: needing someone even after you got what you thought you wanted.
After a long moment, he said, “Your dad is going to kill me. And he’s probably got a right to.”
She hadn’t thought about her parents, but now it flooded in with a vengeance. This was going to get messy. And complicated. “It’ll be okay,” she whispered, and spread her hand out over his chest. He put his own hand over hers. “We’ll be okay.”
They fell asleep in each other’s arms, and woke up late in the morning to the sound of birds.
Not grackles.
Songbirds.
8
“You are so busted,” Eve said, as Claire, fresh from a shower, ran down the steps shouldering her book bag.
Eve was sitting at the dining table, sipping a Coke and reading a Cosmo article with great concentration. She was wearing pink today—or, as Eve liked to call it, Ironic Pink. Pink shirt with poison skull and bones logo. Matching pink pedal-pushers with skulls embossed at the hems. Little pink skull hair ties on her pigtails, which stood out from her head aggressively, daring someone to mock them.
