"I find that hard to believe." He pointed down my hall. "Go. The clock is ticking."
Ten minutes later I returned in a clingy, navy dress made of georgette. It had spaghetti straps and an asymmetrical hemline, jagged and ruffled, that rose high on my left leg. I had taken my hair out of its ponytail and now wore it long over my shoulders.
Roman looked up from where he'd been having meaningful, eye-to-eye communication with Aubrey. "Steamy." He pointed to the King James Bible sitting on my coffee table. It was open, like he'd been perusing. "I never took you for the churchgoing type."
Both Seth and Warren had made similar jokes. That thing was ruining my reputation.
"Just something I'm researching. It's only been moderately useful."
Roman stood up and stretched. "Probably because that's one of the worst translations out there."
I remembered the plethora of Bibles. "Is there a better one you'd recommend?"
He shrugged. "I'm no expert, but you'd probably get more out of one meant for research, not devotional use. Annotated ones. Ones that they use in college classes."
I filed the information away, wondering if the mystery verses might still have more to reveal. For now, I had a date to contend with.
We ended up at a small, hidden Mexican restaurant I'd never been to. The waiters spoke Spanish—as did Roman, it turned out—and the food had not been watered down for Americans. When two margaritas appeared on our table, I realized Roman had ordered one for me.
"I don't want to drink tonight." I recalled how flaky I'd been the last time we went out.
He stared at me like I'd just declared I was going to stop breathing for a change. "You have to be kidding. This place makes the best margaritas north of the Rio Grande."
"I want to stay sober tonight."
"One won't kill you. Take it with food, and you won't even notice." I stayed silent. "For Christ's sake, Georgina, just try the salt. One taste and you'll be hooked."
I reluctantly ran my tongue around the edge. It triggered a longing to taste tequila that rivaled my succubus urge for sex. Giving in against my better judgment, I took a sip. It was fantastic.
The food was too, not surprisingly, and I ended up having two margaritas, instead of just the one. Roman proved to be right about drinking with food, fortunately, and I only felt mildly buzzed. I did not feel out of control and knew I could handle things until the sobering up began.
"Two more hours," I told him as we left the restaurant. "Got something else in mind?"
"Sure do." He inclined his head across the street, and I followed his motion. Miguel's.
I racked my brain. "I've heard of that place... wait, they do salsa dancing there, don't they?"
"Yup. Ever tried it?"
"No."
"What? I thought you were a dancing queen."
"I'm not done with swing yet."
Truthfully, I was dying to try salsa. Like Seth Mortensen's books, though, I did not like to burn through too much of a good thing too fast. I still enjoyed swing and wanted to run it into the ground before I switched dances. Long life tended to make one savor things more.
"Well, now you'll just have to multitask." Taking my hand, he led me across the street.
I tried to protest but couldn't really explain my reasoning to him, and so, like the margaritas, I gave in fairly easily.
The club was warm and packed with bodies, and the music was to die for. My feet immediately began counting out beats as Roman paid our entrance fee and led me to the dance floor. Just like with swing, he turned out to be an expert at salsa, and I found myself easily catching on after a few practices. I might not have demonstrated much talent for standing my ground against margaritas, but I had been dancing for centuries. The skill was fused into me.
Salsa turned out to be a lot sexier than swing. Not that swing wasn't sexy, mind you, but salsa had a dark, sinuous edge about it. One couldn't help but focus on the closeness of the other person's body, the way hips moved together. I now knew what Roman had meant about steamy.
After about a half hour, we took a break, and he led us to the bar. " Mojitosnow," he told me, holding up two fingers for the bartender. "In keeping with our Latin theme tonight."
"I can't..."
But the mojitos appeared without my counsel and turned out to be pretty damned good. We finished them faster than we should have, so we could get back out on the floor.
By the time we had to leave for Doug's concert, post-grunge, punk rock, ska -type music didn't sound so good anymore. I was exhilarated from dancing, hot and sweaty, and I'd gone through another mojito and a tequila chaser. I knew I'd found a new passion in salsa and silently cursed Roman for what would probably become a dancing addiction, even though I had exalted in the movement. His body had moved with a seductive grace, brushing against mine in a way that left me quivering and aching.
We stumbled out into the street, holding hands, breathless and laughing. The world spun around me slightly, and I decided it was probably just as well we'd left when we did. My motor controls had stopped operating at normal levels.
"Okay, where'd we park?"
"You've got to be kidding," I told him, jerking him around the corner where I could see the soft glow of a yellow taxi. "We have to take a cab."
"Come on, I'm not that bad."
But he had the wisdom to protest no further, and we caught the taxi up to the brewery in Greenlake. People milled in and out of the building; there had been two other performances before Doug's. As I had feared, our posh dancing clothing looked hopelessly out of place among the rough and tumble ware of the college-aged, but it no longer seemed the big deal it had when Roman picked me up.
"Don't get caught up in fashion games," he advised as we squeezed our way inside the packed brewery. "These kids probably think we're old, nark conformists or something, but really, they're just conforming in their own ways. They're conforming to nonconformity."
I scanned for the bookstore crew, hoping they'd secured a table. "Oh no. You don't wax political when you're drunk, do you?"
"No, no. I just get tired of people always trying to fit a mold, trying to toe some line, regardless if it's right or left. I'm proud to be the best-dressed person in this room. Make your own rules, that's what I say."
I spotted Beth and dragged Roman over to a table on the other side of the room. Other bookstore natives sat with her: Casey, Andy, Bruce—and Seth. My stomach sank.
"Nice dress," said Bruce.
"We saved you a seat." Casey indicated a chair. "I didn't realize you'd have a... friend."
The chair situation held little concern for me. All I could feel were Seth's eyes on me, his face thoughtful but neutral. Flushing, I felt like a complete idiot and wished I could just turn around and leave. After refusing him with my stupid tirade about not dating, here I was, hand in hand, drunk off my ass with Roman. I couldn't even imagine what Seth must think of me now.
"Not a problem," Roman declared, oblivious to my churning emotions and unfazed by my colleagues' bemused attention. He sat down in the chair, pulling me onto his lap. "We'll share."
Andy made a bar run, bringing back beers for all of us except Seth who, just like with caffeine, chose to abstain. Roman and I explained where we'd been, lauding salsa as the world's new greatest pastime, thus earning demands from the others that I start up a second wave of dance lessons.
Doug's group soon came on stage, and we all cheered appropriately at the sight of Doug-the-assistant-manager turned Doug-the-lead-singer of Nocturnal Admission. Beer kept coming, and while continuing to drink was probably the stupidest thing I could have done, I was beyond the point where I could reasonably stop. Besides, I had too many other things to worry about. Like avoiding eye contact with a thus-far-silent Seth. And savoring the feel of being on top of Roman, his chest against my back and arms around my waist. His chin rested on my shoulder, giving him easy access to whisper in my ear and occasionally run his lips by my neck. The hardness I felt underneath my thighs suggested I wasn't
the only one getting something out of this seating arrangement.
Doug came to talk to us during a break, covered in sweat but thoroughly ecstatic. He took in the sight of me plastered on Roman. "You're a little overdressed, aren't you, Kin- caid?" He reconsidered. "Or under. Hard to say."
"You're one to talk," I shot back, finishing my... second... or was it third... beer.
Doug wore tight, red vinyl pants; combat boots; and a long, purple velvet jacket left open to expose his chest. A ragged top hat perched jauntily on his head.
"I'm part of the entertainment, babe."
"So am I, babe."
Some of the others chuckled. Doug's expression turned disapproving, but he said nothing to me, instead making some comment to Beth about the number of people who had turned out for the show.
I entered that weird sort of tunnel vision that occurs sometimes with alcohol, where I became so consumed with my own buzzing, swirling perceptions that the conversation and noise around me blurred to an indistinct drone, and faces and colors faded out to an irrelevant background separate from my existence. Indeed, all I really felt was Roman. Every nerve in me was screaming, and I wished the hands he rested on my stomach would slide up to touch my breasts. I could already feel my nipples hardening under the thin fabric and wondered what it'd be like to turn around and ride him like I had Warren...
"Restroom," I suddenly exclaimed, clambering ungracefully off Roman. It was weird how one's bladder could turn from tolerable to unbearable so quickly. "Where's the restroom here?"
The others looked at me strangely, or so it seemed to me. "Back there," pointed Casey, her voice sounding far away despite her close proximity. "You okay?"
"Yeah." I pushed a slipping strap up. "I just need to use the restroom." And get away from Roman, I silently added, so I can think about things clearly. Not that that last feat would probably be possible in my current state.
Roman started to rise, as drunk and fumbling as me. "I'll go with you—"
"I will," offered Doug hastily. "I need to get back there anyway before the next set."
Taking my arm, he wound us through the people toward a less-populated back hallway. I staggered slightly as we went, and he slowed his pace to help.
"How much have you had to drink?"
"Before or after I got here?"
"Holy shit. You are trashed."
"You got a problem with it?"
"Hardly. How do you think I spend most of my nights off?"
We paused outside the ladies' restroom. "I bet Seth thinks I'm a lush."
"Why would he think that?"
"You don't see him drinking. He's such a fucking purist. Him and his stupid no caffeine and no alcohol shit."
Doug's dark eyes flickered in surprise at my language. "Not all nondrinkers despise drinkers, you know. Besides, Seth's not the one I'm worried about. I'm more concerned about Mr. Happy Hands out there."
I blinked, confused. Then: "You mean Roman?"
"You've come a long way from refusing to date to practically making out in public."
"So?" I countered hotly. "Can't I be with someone? Aren't I entitled to do something for a change that's actually something I want to do, not something I have to do?" My words came out with more bitter truth—and volume—than I intended.
"Of course," he soothed, "but you aren't yourself tonight. You're going to do something stupid if you're not careful. Something you'll regret later. You should ask Casey or Beth to take you home—"
"Oh, you're a piece of work," I exclaimed. I knew I was being irrational, that I'd never have turned on Doug sober, but I couldn't stop. "Just because I won't go out with you, just because I choose to fuck Warren or someone else, then you have to step in and try to keep me pure and untouched. If you can't have me, then no one can, is that it?"
Doug blanched, and a few passersby stared at us. "Christ, Georgina, no—"
"You're such a fucking hypocrite," I yelled at him. "You have no right to tell me what to do! No fucking right."
"I'm not, I—"
I didn't listen to what else he had to say. Turning, I stormed into the ladies' restroom, the only place I could go to escape these men. When I'd finished and gone to wash my hands, I looked up in the mirror. Did I look trashed? My cheeks were pink, some of the waves in my hair a little limper than when I'd started the evening. And I was sweating. Not too trashed, I decided. I could be a lot worse.
I felt hesitant to leave the restroom, fearing Doug waited for me. I didn't want to talk to him. Another woman came in with a lit cigarette, and I bummed one off her, smoking it in its entirety while I crouched in a corner to kill time. When I heard the band kick up again, I knew it was safe.
I walked out of the restroom and ran straight into Roman.
"Are you okay?" he asked, his hands catching me around the waist to steady me. "I was worried when you didn't come back."
"Yeah... I'm fine... er, no, I don't know," I admitted, leaning into him, wrapping my arms around him. "I don't know what's going on. I feel so strange."
"It's all right," he told me, patting my back. "Everything's going to be all right. Do you need to leave? Is there anything I can do?"
"I... don't know..." I pulled away slightly, looking up into his eyes. Those blue-green depths were drowning me, and suddenly, I didn't care.
I don't know who started it—it could have been either of us—but suddenly we were kissing, there in the middle of the hallway, arms pulling each other tighter, lips and tongues working furiously. The alcohol enhanced my base physical response yet numbed my awareness of succubus energy absorption. It must have still been working in spite of my inability to sense it, however, because Roman abruptly pulled away from me, looking aghast.
"Weird..." He put a hand to his forehead. "I feel... dizzy all of a sudden." He hesitated a moment then shook it off, pulling me toward him again. Just like all the others. They never caught on that it was me doing it, me hurting them, so they still came back for more.
His pause had been what I needed to gain some tiny sense of clarity in my drunken cloud. What had I done? What had I let myself become tonight? Every interaction with Roman had pushed me past another boundary. First I'd said we wouldn't date. Then I'd confined us to limited dates. Tonight I'd sworn I wouldn't drink, and now I could barely stand up from all the booze. Kissing was another taboo I had just broken. And it would only lead to the inevitable...
In my mind's eye, I could see us after sex. Roman would sprawl, pale and exhausted, drained of his life. That energy would crackle through me like an electric current, and he would stare at me, weak and confused, unable to comprehend what he no longer had. Depending on how much I stole from him, he would lose years off his life. Some sloppy succubi had even been known to kill victims by drinking too much life too fast.
"No... no... don't."
I pushed him away, unwilling to see that future realized, but his arm still held me. Looking beyond him, I suddenly caught sight of Seth coming down the hallway. He froze when he saw us, but I was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the writer.
I was a hair's breath away from kissing Roman again, from taking him somewhere—anywhere—where we could be alone and naked, where I could do all the things I'd fantasized doing with him. Another kiss... another kiss, and I would not be able to stop. I wanted it too much. I wanted to be with someone I wanted. Just once after all these years.
And that was exactly why I couldn't do it.
"Georgina..." began Roman confusedly, hands still on me.
"Please," I begged, my voice a whisper, "let me go. Please let me go. You have to let me go."
"What's wrong? I don't understand."
"Please let me go," I repeated. "Let me go!" The sudden volume of my own voice startled me, giving me a small boost of will to break from his grasp. He reached toward me, saying my name, but I stepped back. I sounded hysterical, like a crazy woman, and Roman was looking at me rightfully so. "Don't touch me. Don't. Touch. Me!"
My ang
er was more at myself, at my life, than it was at him. A terrible rage and frustration, amplified by alcohol, coursed through me at the universe. The world wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that some people had perfect lives. That beautiful civilizations should fall to dust. That babies should be born with only a handful of breaths. That I should be trapped in this cruel joke of an existence. An eternity of making love without love.
"Georgina..."
"Don't touch me. Ever again. Please," I whispered hoarsely, and then, I did the only thing left to me. Escape. I ran. I turned from him and ran down the hall, away from Roman, away from Seth, away from the main seating area. I didn't know where I was going, but it would keep me safe. Would keep Roman safe. I might not be able to heal my own pain, but I could prevent any more from coming to him.
My poor coordination and desperation made me run into people who responded with varying degrees of politeness to my mania. Was Roman behind me? I didn't know. He'd drunk at least as much as I had; his coordination couldn't be any better. If I could just be alone, I could shape-shift or go invisible and get out of here...
I burst through a door, and a wave of cool night air suddenly engulfed me. Gasping, I looked around. I stood in the back parking lot. It was packed with cars, and a few people smoking pot lingered around, most not paying attention to me. The door I'd come through opened, and I turned, expecting Roman. Instead, I saw Seth, looking anxious.
"Stay away from me," I warned.
He held up his hands, palms forward in an appeasing gesture as he approached me slowly. "Are you okay?"
I took two steps back, fumbling for my purse. "I'm fine. I just have to... have to get away from here... get away from him." I pulled out my cell phone, intending to call one of the vampires. It slipped from my hands, dodged my attempts to catch it, and hit the asphalt with a sickening crack. "Oh shit."
Kneeling down, I picked up the phone, looking with dismay at the gibberish on the display. "Shit," I repeated.
Seth knelt by me. "What can I do?"
I looked up at him, his face swimming in my blurred vision. "I have to get out of here. I have to get away from him."
"Okay. Come on. I'll take you home."
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