Living Dead in Dallas ss(v-2

by Шарлин Харрис

  "Sure, Sookie," he said, looking very happy to see me. That was one of JB's charms. The others included white perfect teeth, an absolutely straight nose, a face so masculine yet so handsome that it made you want to reach out and stroke his cheeks, and a broad chest and trim waist. Maybe not quite as trim as it used to be, but then, JB was human, and that was a Good Thing. I settled in between Eggs and JB, and Eggs turned to me with a sloppy smile.

  "Want a drink, Sookie?"

  I am kind of spare on drinking, since I see its results every day. "No, thank you," I said. "How you been doing, Eggs?"

  "Good," he said, after considering. He'd had more to drink than Tara. He'd had too much to drink.

  We talked about mutual friends and acquaintances until the kickoff, after which the game was the sole topic of conversation. The Game, broadly, because every game for the past fifty years lay in the collective memory of Bon Temps, and this game was compared to all other games, these players to all others. I could actually enjoy this occasion a little, since I had developed my mental shielding to such an extent I could pretend people were exactly what they said, since I was absolutely not listening in.

  JB snuggled closer and closer, after a shower of compliments on my hair and my figure. JB's mother had taught him early on that appreciated women are happy women, and it was a simple philosophy that had kept JB's head above water for some time.

  "You remember that doctor at that hospital, Sookie?" he asked me suddenly, during the second quarter.

  "Yes. Dr. Sonntag. Widow." She'd been young to be a widow, and younger to be a doctor. I'd introduced her to JB.

  "We dated for a while. Me and a doctor," he said wonderingly.

  "Hey, that's great." I'd hoped as much. It had seemed to me that Dr. Sonntag could sure use what JB had to offer, and JB needed … well, he needed someone to take care of him.

  "But then she got rotated back to Baton Rouge," he told me. He looked a little stricken. "I guess I miss her." A health care system had bought our little hospital, and the emergency room doctors were brought in for four months at a stretch. His arm tightened around my shoulders. "But it's awful good to see you," he reassured me.

  Bless his heart. "JB, you could go to Baton Rouge to see her," I suggested. "Why don't you?"

  "She's a doctor. She doesn't have much time off."

  "She'd make time off for you."

  "Do you think so?"

  "Unless she's an absolute idiot," I told him.

  "I might do that. I did talk to her on the phone the other night. She did say she wished I was there."

  "That was a pretty big hint, JB."

  "You think?"

  "I sure do."

  He looked perkier. "Then I'm fixing to drive to Baton Rouge tomorrow," he said again. He kissed my cheek. "You make me feel good, Sookie."

  "Well, JB, right back at you." I gave him a peck on the lips, just a quick one.

  Then I saw Bill staring a hole in me.

  He and Portia were in the next section of seats, close to the bottom. He had twisted around and was looking up at me.

  If I'd planned it, it couldn't have worked out better. This was a magnificent Screw-him moment.

  And it was ruined.

  I just wanted him.

  I turned my eyes away and smiled at JB, and all the time what I wanted was to meet with Bill under the stands and have sex with him right then and there. I wanted him to pull down my pants and get behind me. I wanted him to make me moan.

  I was so shocked at myself I didn't know what to do. I could feel my face turning a dull red. I could not even pretend to smile.

  After a minute, I could appreciate that this was almost funny. I had been brought up as conventionally as possible, given my unusual disability. Naturally, I'd learned the facts of life pretty early since I could read minds (and, as a child, had no control over what I absorbed). And I'd always thought the idea of sex was pretty interesting, though the same disability that had led to me learning so much about it theoretically had kept me from putting that theory into practice. After all, it's hard to get really involved in sex when you know your partner is wishing you were Tara Thornton instead (for example), or when he's hoping you remembered to bring a condom, or when he's criticizing your body parts. For successful sex, you have to keep your concentration fixed on what your partner's doing, so you can't get distracted by what he's thinking.

  With Bill, I couldn't hear a single thing. And he was so experienced, so smooth, so absolutely dedicated to getting it right. It appeared I was as much a junkie as Hugo.

  I sat through the rest of the game, smiling and nodding when it seemed indicated, trying not to look down and to my left, and finding after the halftime show was over that I hadn't heard a single song the band had played. Nor had I noticed Tara's cousin's twirling solo. As the crowd moved slowly to the parking lot after the Bon Temps Hawks had won, 28-18, I agreed to drive JB home. Eggs had sobered some by then, so I was pretty sure he and Tara would be okay; but I was relieved to see Tara take the wheel.

  JB lived close to downtown in half a duplex. He asked me very sweetly to come in, but I told him I had to get home. I gave him a big hug, and I advised him to call Dr. Sonntag. I still didn't know her first name.

  He said he would, but then, with JB, you couldn't really tell.

  Then I had to stop and get gas at the only late-night gas station, where I had a long conversation with Arlene's cousin Derrick (who was brave enough to take the night shift), so I was a little later getting home than I had planned.

  As I unlocked the front door, Bill came out of the darkness. Without a word, he grabbed my arm and turned me to him, and then he kissed me. In a minute we were pressed against the door with his body moving rhythmically against mine. I reached one hand behind myself to fumble with the lock, and the key finally turned. We stumbled into the house, and he turned me to face the couch. I gripped it with my hands and, just as I'd imagined, he pulled down my pants, and then he was in me.

  I made a hoarse noise I'd never heard come from my throat before. Bill was making noises equally as primitive. I didn't think I could form a word. His hands were under my sweater, and my bra was in two pieces. He was relentless. I almost collapsed after the first time I came. "No," he growled when I was flagging, and he kept pounding. Then he increased the pace until I was almost sobbing, and then my sweater tore, and his teeth found my shoulder. He made a deep, awful sound, and then, after long seconds, it was over.

  I was panting as if I'd run a mile, and he was shivering, too. Without bothering to refasten his clothing, he turned me around to face him, and he bent his head to my shoulder again to lick the little wound. When it had stopped bleeding and begun healing, he took off everything I had on, very slowly. He cleaned me below; he kissed me above.

  "You smell like him" was the only thing he said. He proceeded to erase that smell and replace it with his own.

  Then we were in the bedroom, and I had a moment to be glad I'd changed the sheets that morning before he bent his mouth to mine again.

  If I'd had doubts up until then, I had them no longer. He was not sleeping with Portia Bellefleur. I didn't know what he was up to, but he did not have a true relationship with her. He slid his arms underneath me and held me to him as tightly as possible; he nuzzled my neck, kneaded my hips, ran his fingers down my thighs, and kissed the backs of my knees. He bathed in me. "Spread your legs for me, Sookie," he whispered, in his cold dark voice, and I did. He was ready again, and he was rough with it, as if he were trying to prove something.

  "Be sweet," I said, the first time I had spoken.

  "I can't. It's been too long, next time I'll be sweet, I swear," he said, running his tongue down the line of my jaw. His fangs grazed my neck. Fangs, tongue, mouth, fingers, manhood; it was like being made love to by the Tasmanian Devil. He was everywhere, and everywhere in a hurry.

  When he collapsed on top of me, I was exhausted. He shifted to lie by my side, one leg draped over mine, one arm across my chest. H
e might as well have gotten out a branding iron and had done with it, but it wouldn't have been as much fun for me.

  "Are you okay?" he mumbled.

  "Except for having run into a brick wall a few times," I said indistinctly.

  We both drifted off to sleep for a little, though Bill woke first, as he always did at night. "Sookie," he said quietly. "Darling. Wake up."

  "Oo," I said, slowly coming to consciousness. For the first time in weeks, I woke with the hazy conviction that all was right with the world. With slow dismay, I realized that things were far from right. I opened my eyes. Bill's were right above me.

  "We have to talk," he said, stroking the hair back from my face.

  "So talk." I was awake now. What I was regretting was not the sex, but having to discuss the issues between us.

  "I got carried away in Dallas," he said immediately. "Vampires do, when the chance to hunt presents itself so obviously. We were attacked. We have the right to hunt down those who want to kill us."

  "That's returning to days of lawlessness," I said.

  "But vampires hunt, Sookie. It is our nature," he said very seriously. "Like leopards; like wolves. We are not human. We can pretend to be, when we're trying to live with people … in your society. We can sometimes remember what it was like to be among you, one of you. But we are not the same race. We are no longer of the same clay."

  I thought this over. He'd told me this, over and over, in different words, since we'd begun seeing each other.

  Or maybe, he'd been seeing me, but I hadn't been seeing him: clearly, truly. No matter how often I thought I'd made my peace with his otherness, I realized that I still expected him to react as he would if he were JB du Rone, or Jason, or my church pastor.

  "I think I'm finally getting this," I said. "But you got to realize, sometimes I'm not going to like that difference. Sometimes I have to get away and cool down. I'm really going to try. I really love you." Having done my best to promise to meet him halfway, I was reminded of my own grievance. I grabbed his hair and rolled him over so I was looking down at him. I looked right in his eyes.

  "Now, you tell me what you're doing with Portia."

  Bill's big hands rested on my hips as he explained.

  "She came to me after I got back from Dallas, the first night. She had read about what happened there, wondered if I knew anyone who'd been there that day. When I said that I had been there myself—I didn't mention you—Portia said she had information that some of the arms used in the attack had come from a place in Bon Temps, Sheridan's Sport Shop. I asked her how she had heard this; she said as a lawyer, she couldn't say. I asked her why she was so concerned, if there wasn't anything further she'd tell me about it; she said she was a good citizen and hated to see other citizens persecuted. I asked her why she came to me; she said I was the only vampire she knew."

  I believed that like I believed Portia was a secret belly dancer.

  I narrowed my eyes as I worked this through. "Portia doesn't care one damn thing about vampire rights," I said. "She might want to get in your pants, but she doesn't care about vampire legal issues."

  "'Get in my pants?' What a turn of phrase you have."

  "Oh, you've heard that before," I said, a little abashed.

  He shook his head, amusement sparkling in his face. "Get in my pants," he repeated, sounding it out slowly. "I would be in your pants, if you had any on." He rubbed his hands up and down to demonstrate.

  "Cut that out," I said. "I'm trying to think."

  His hands were pressing my hips, then releasing, moving me back and forth on him. I began to have difficulty forming thoughts.

  "Stop, Bill," I said. "Listen, I think Portia wants to be seen with you so she might be asked to join that supposed sex club here in Bon Temps."

  "Sex club?" Bill said with interest, not stopping in the least.

  "Yes, didn't I tell you … oh, Bill, no … Bill, I'm still worn out from last … Oh. Oh, God." His hands had gripped me with their great strength, and moved me purposefully, right onto his stiffness. He began rocking me again, back and forth. "Oh," I said, lost in the moment. I began to see colors floating in front of my eyes, and then I was being rocked so fast I couldn't keep track of my motion. The end came at the same time for both of us, and we clung together panting for several minutes.

  "We should never separate again," Bill said.

  "I don't know, this makes it almost worth it."

  A little aftershock rippled his body. "No," he said. "This is wonderful, but I would rather just leave town for a few days, than fight with you again." He opened his eyes wide. "Did you really suck a bullet from Eric's shoulder?"

  "Yeah, he said I had to get it out before his flesh closed over it."

  "Did he tell you he had a pocketknife in his pocket?"

  I was taken aback. "No. Did he? Why would he do that?"

  Bill raised his eyebrows, as if I had said something quite ridiculous.

  "Guess," he said.

  "So I would suck on his shoulder? You can't mean that."

  Bill just maintained the skeptical look.

  "Oh, Bill. I fell for it. Wait a minute—he got shot! That bullet could have hit me, but instead it hit him. He was guarding me."

  "How?"

  "Well, by lying on top of me …"

  "I rest my case." There was nothing old-fashioned about Bill at the moment. On the other hand, there was a pretty old-fashioned look on his face.

  "But, Bill … you mean he's that devious?"

  Again with the raised eyebrows.

  "Lying on top of me is not such a big treat," I protested, "that someone should take a bullet for it. Geez. That's nuts!"

  "It got some of his blood in you."

  "Only a drop or two. I spit the rest out," I said.

  "A drop or two is enough when you are as old as Eric is."

  "Enough for what?"

  "He will know some things about you, now."

  "What, like my dress size?"

  Bill smiled, not always a relaxing sight. "No, like how you are feeling. Angry, horny, loving."

  I shrugged. "Won't do him any good."

  "Probably it is not too important, but be careful from now on," Bill warned me. He seemed quite serious.

  "I still can't believe someone would put themselves in a position to take a bullet for me just in the hopes I'd ingest a drop of blood getting the bullet out. That's ridiculous. You know, it seems like to me you introduced this subject so I'd quit bugging you about Portia, but I'm not going to. I think Portia believes if she's dating you, someone will ask her to go to this sex club, since if she's willing to ball a vampire, she's willing to do anything. They think," said hastily after looking at Bill's face. "So Portia figures she'll go, she'll learn stuff, she'll find out who actually killed Lafayette, Andy'll be off the hook."

  "That's a complicated plot."

  "Can you refute it?" I was proud to use refute, which had been on my Word of the Day calendar.

  "As a matter of fact, I can't." He became immobile. His eyes were fixed and unblinking, and his hands relaxed. Since Bill doesn't breathe, he was absolutely still.

  Finally he blinked. "It would have been better if she had told me the truth to begin with."

  "You better not have had sex with her," I said, finally admitting to myself that the bare possibility had made me nearly blind with jealousy.

  "I wondered when you were going to ask me," he said calmly. "As if I would ever bed a Bellefleur. No, she has not the slightest desire to have sex with me. She even has a hard time pretending she wants to at some later date. Portia is not much of an actress. Most of the time we are together, she takes me on wild goose chases to find this cache of arms the Fellowship has stowed here, saying all the Fellowship sympathizers are hiding them."

  "So why'd you go along with any of this?"

  "There's something about her that's honorable. And I wanted to see if you would be jealous."

  "Oh, I see. Well, what do you think?"

&nbs
p; "I think," he said, "I had better never see you within a yard of that handsome moron again."

  "JB? I'm like his sister," I said.

  "You forget, you've had my blood, and I can tell what you are feeling," Bill said. "I don't think you feel exactly like a sister to him."

  "That would explain why I'm here in bed with you, right?"

  "You love me."

  I laughed, up against his throat.

  "It's close to dawn," he said. "I have to go."

  "Okay, baby." I smiled up at him as he gathered up his clothes. "Hey, you owe me a sweater and a bra. Two bras. Gabe tore one, so that was a work-related clothes injury. And you tore one last night, plus my sweater."

  "That's why I bought a women's clothing store," he said smoothly. "So I could rip if the spirit moves me."

  I laughed and lay back down. I could sleep for a couple more hours. I was still smiling when he let himself out of my house, and I woke up in the middle of the morning with a lightness in my heart that hadn't been there for a long time. (Well, it felt like a long time.) I walked, somewhat gingerly, into the bathroom to soak in a tubful of hot water. When I began to wash, I felt something in my earlobes. I stood up in the tub and looked over at the mirror above the sink. He'd put the topaz earrings in while I was asleep.

  Mr. Last Word.

  ***

  Since our reunion had been secret, it was I who got invited to the club first. It had never occurred to me that that might happen; but after it did, I realized that if Portia had figured she might be invited after going with a vampire, I was even primer meat.

  To my surprise and disgust, the one to broach the subject was Mike Spencer. Mike was the funeral home director and the coroner in Bon Temps, and we had not always had a completely cordial relationship. However, I'd known him all my life and was used to offering him respect, a hard habit to break. Mike was wearing his funeral home duds when he came in to Merlotte's that evening, because he'd come from Mrs. Cassidy's visitation. A dark suit, white shirt, subdued striped tie, and polished wing tips changed Mike Spencer from the guy who really preferred bolo ties and pointy-toed cowboy boots.