One-Click Buy: April Harlequin Blaze

by Kathleen O'Reilly

  As long as there was hope of finding and destroying Garret’s sire.

  Dillon’s gaze shifted to the second man clad in jeans, a white T-shirt with a skull and cross bones on the front, and biker boots. He stood in the far corner near a large welding unit. He had a red, white and blue bandana tied around his head, a worn straw Resistol perched on top, and a pair of goggles secured over his eyes. Gloved hands reached for a long strip of metal. He powered on the ARC Unit and worked at the piece, firing and shaping until it started to resemble a rear fender.

  Despite the hat, Garret wasn’t anywhere close to a real cowboy. When he’d been turned back in the seventeen hundreds, he’d been a Texas patriot. A bona fide hero, and one of the founding fathers of Skull Creek. Not that anyone in town knew his identity. No, they thought he was just another leather-clad biker who’d invaded their small town to set up a manufacturing shop for his business. He liked fast motorcycles and even faster women, and he’d become somewhat of a role model for Dillon. The older vampire had been teaching him about his new vampness, showing him the ropes and outlining the vampire equivalent of the Ten Commandments.

  Number one? No entering a home unless invited by the host. Public buildings were fair game, from the Piggly Wiggly to the local VFW Hall, but no personal dwellings unless specifically asked.

  Number two—no direct sunlight.

  Number three—no sharp objects, including knives, stakes and giant toothpicks like the ones used over at the Pig in the Poke Barbecue Joint.

  Number four—no Italian restaurants. The old legend about garlic warding off vampires had turned out to be true. While it couldn’t kill one of Dillon’s kind, it could cause a lot of pain.

  Number five—no solid food.

  Number six—no changing eye colors. A vampire tended to reflect his emotions with his eyes and so they changed color frequently depending on his mood. Most vampires could control this. Since Dillon was young (in vamp years), he wasn’t able to leash his feelings as easily as his older vamp buddies, but he was learning.

  Number seven—no changing into a bat. Such a change took its toll and made the vampire weak and vulnerable. Which meant it was usually avoided.

  Number eight—no indulging in blood and sex at the same time. Unless he wanted to tie himself to one woman for the rest of eternity. Talk about a snowball’s chance in hell. Dillon had waited too long to unleash the wildness inside. He wasn’t screwing things up by landing himself in a permanent relationship.

  Number nine—no spending more than one night with any one woman. The more sex a vampire had with a woman, the more she wanted him. The last thing any vampire needed was a Fatal Attraction chasing him all over town.

  Which led to number ten—keeping a low profile. A vampire’s survival hinged on blending in with mainstream society, laying low and playing it cool.

  Hence Garret’s cowboy hat. The vamp was now living in a small Texas town, and When in Rome, as the saying went.

  While Garret taught the importance of blending and urged Dillon to accept what he’d become, the vampire didn’t seem all that content in his own skin.

  Rather, he seemed restless.

  Anxious.

  Hungry.

  But not for sex and blood. No, Garret wanted what Jake wanted—his humanity.

  Dillon turned his attention back to the computer and clicked on his Internet Explorer. A few seconds later, he logged in at MeetVamps.com and scrolled down the screen to the first comment posted on his page yesterday.

  Lovrgrlvamp: Hey, there, Skull Creek. I’m not wearing any panties and it’s soooo hot. I’m here waiting for u, baby.

  O-kay. It wasn’t exactly what he had had in mind when he’d signed up and started blogging a few weeks ago—to get some sort of lead on the Ancient One—but at least he had visitors. Not that he really thought the father of all vamps would be chatting online, but it was all he’d been able to think of to track down the vampire who’d sired Garret.

  The same vampire who held the key to humanity for all three of them.

  Destroying the source would reverse the curse for Garret and anyone that he’d turned, which meant Jake and Dillon would be free, as well.

  As much as Dillon liked being a vampire, he knew he couldn’t stay that way. He’d caused his parents enough grief, which was why he’d yet to break the news about his new fanged status. He was hoping he wouldn’t have to. The blogging had given him a few leads so far—a couple of names and locations that he was busy following up on. With any luck, he would gather even more information and, eventually, hit the jackpot. Once he located the Ancient One, Dillon would help the other two vamps destroy him. Then he would embrace his humanity once again and go back to playing the town geek.

  The notion sent a wave of anxiety through him and made him all the more eager to break Bobby’s record. Because he knew that this was it. His one chance to prove the truth to himself and build enough memories to last him through all the long, lonely human nights that lay ahead.

  It was now or never.

  He tensed, raking stiff fingers through his hair. His groin throbbed and he shifted in the leather seat. He was wound tight. Hungry. Starving even.

  You should have gone for round two with Miss Hot Chick.

  That’s what he usually did. What he’d been doing since he’d come to understand what he’d become and learned the all-important fact that sex was as crucial a sustenance as blood. More so because feeding off sexual energy curbed the need for blood. Sure, he still had to feed in the traditional sense, but not nearly as often.

  All the more reason he should have gone for an all-nighter.

  He’d meant to, but when he’d walked back into the motel room after Meg and her proposition, he hadn’t been able to push either out of his head. And while he’d turned into an oversexed, greedy vampire, he wasn’t a two-timing, oversexed greedy vampire.

  He hadn’t been able to make himself get busy with one woman while thinking about another.

  Which meant he wasn’t anywhere close to being satisfied.

  He raked another hand through his hair and took a long sip of the ice-cold beer sitting on the desk next to him. It did little to relieve the heat burning him up from the inside out.

  He forced his attention back to the screen and read his own post. He’d been trying to spark somebody’s memory.

  SkullCreekVamp: I had the dream again. The details were so clear that I’m starting to think that it’s not a dream at all, but the real deal. I’m remembering what happened to me. The pain. The hunger. The presence. Anybody else remember details? I want to remember a face, but I can’t. Not yet.

  Of course, that wasn’t true. Dillon knew exactly who was responsible for his current state—Jake. The older vamp had turned him in a desperate attempt to give him back the life that had been ripped away when Garret had inadvertently attacked him. It had been the anniversary of Garret’s turning and he’d been instinctively called back to the place of his death to relive those few moments when his humanity had slipped away. Like any vampire going through the turning, he’d been out of control. Mindless. Dillon had gotten in his way. He’d be six feet under right now if Jake hadn’t intervened and turned him before it was too late.

  Dillon would never forget that moment. The anguish at feeling his life slipping away, the excitement when he’d drank from Jake and new life had rushed back through him, strong and more potent than anything he’d ever felt before.

  Likewise, Jake remembered his own sire—Garret.

  Garret was the only member of the vamp trio who couldn’t remember. Sure, he had a few images and impressions that had lingered in the two hundred years since he’d been turned in what was now the town square, but nothing clear when it came to the vamp responsible. One minute he’d been heading home after fighting for Texas independence, and the next he’d been attacked by a band of Mexican bandits. They’d robbed and killed him, or so the history books said. But someone—something—had happened along and changed all of that. On
e of the bandits? Maybe. Maybe not. He didn’t know. There’d been no formal “Hi, I’m so-and-so, the ancient vampire who’s going to turn you instead of leaving your dying carcass to rot.” Rather, one minute he’d been following the light into the hereafter, and the next that light had been obliterated by a shadow looming over him. He remembered the pain ripping through his body, the smell—sweet, intense, intoxicating—that had filled his head, and a gold medallion.

  Dillon glanced at the small sketch Garret had made of the piece of jewelry. He was hoping to gather a little info on some recent turnings to see if he could find a newly turned vampire who remembered the same gold pendant. If so, maybe the new vamp would remember even more—a physical description, maybe even a name.

  He scrolled down the screen, his gaze drinking in the various posts.

  Wannabevamp: Stop worrying about the f@#$%^& dream and just enjoy. I would give anything to turn. I tried the new enamel fangs and while they worked pretty well, they’re nothing like the real thing.

  Vamp4Life: Pain is a state of mind. A place you visit. If you choose not to go, then you’re home free and you don’t have anything to worry about. That, or you can try a Vicodin. Or even Xanax. Both work for me.

  DarkAngel: So what if there was pain? The trick is not to fight it. Embrace the feeling, relish it, worship it. It’s who you are. Who we are.

  BradtheImpaler: Got 3 prs of fangs. This really rad dentist in Queens made them 4 me and they’re sharp as hell. I get a discount on my next pair if I send him a referral. Wannabe, if ur up near Queens, want me to hook u up?

  Fangtastic: I sell some high quality incisors if anyone’s interested. I’m even a preferred seller on eBay. I offer free shipping, too, if you order more than one pair. I also have some really cool vampire porn.

  Lovrgrlvamp: I like pain. Spankings are my favorite. Maybe we should get together and whip each other. I’m game if you’re ever out the Chicago way. Or maybe I could head down to Texas. Whip me, cowboy. Whip me goooooooood…

  He read the rest of the comments—most of which, with the exception of Dark Angel, were ripe with sexual innuendo and tips for going vamp—before posting his next entry where he mentioned the location of his turning (also Garret’s) and the timing (over two hundred years ago). He was just powering off his computer when Jake opened the glass door and ducked his head inside the office.

  “Hey, bud, can you help me out for a second? I want to fit the new tank in place and I need an extra pair of hands.”

  “Sure thing.” Dillon followed Jake into the shop and helped hold the tank in place so the vamp could take more measurements.

  Then he spent the next few hours learning the finer art of tank shaping. A good thing since he was desperate for a distraction from the need gnawing at his belly and the sudden vision of Meg—her naked body stretched out beneath him, her eyes glazed with passion, her bottom lip full and swollen from his kisses, her breasts flushed, her nipples hard and greedy, her body so warm and wet—that stuck in his brain.

  But the more he trailed his fingers over the warm, smooth metal, kneading and shaping, the more the vision turned to a full-blown fantasy.

  He felt her warm skin beneath his hands. Her breasts, hot and flushed, pressed against his chest. Her mouth ate at his. Her body sucked at his cock…

  Shit. He wanted her now.

  Not tomorrow when they met for their first lesson.

  Not a few days from now after he’d seduced her to the point that she no longer resisted the attraction between them.

  Not next week after they’d had a chance to spend more time together and she fell hook, line and sinker for his vamp charisma.

  Now.

  The need ate away inside of him as he finished the tank and finally called it a night. He had little more than an hour until daylight. Plenty of time to head out to Garret’s place.

  He’d been staying with the older vampire at a large ranch on the outskirts of town now that his own house was off-limits. While he had a pretty secluded place, he had far too many windows for comfort. There was also the fact that his parents were camped out in his front yard, hell-bent on deprogramming him from whatever cult he’d fallen in with.

  Garret’s ranch house had an old wine cellar that provided a dark, safe place to sleep during the day. The spread was also sizable, which afforded plenty of seclusion.

  He climbed onto his motorcycle and kicked the bike to life. He sped out of the parking lot with every intention of turning east toward the ranch.

  Only his hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they hung a sharp left and headed west. He opened up the engine. The bike screamed toward the center of town and the small two-story colonial that sat a few blocks over from Main Street.

  He went left again, then right. His headlamp cast wicked shadows across the pavement as the motorcycle ate up the distance to the brick structure that sat several houses down from the corner.

  Easing his bike over to the curb on the opposite side of the street, he killed the engine. The motor sizzled and hissed, the faint noise blending in with the buzz of crickets and a dozen other sounds that drifted on the cool April breeze. Sounds barely discernable to anyone but Dillon.

  Since he’d been turned it was as if someone had upped the amp level in his brain. He heard everything—the snores of an old couple several houses down, the obnoxious voice of the host of some infomercial blazing from a nearby neighbor’s television set, the rustling of cans and paper as a raccoon clawed through a trash can, the steady shhhhhhhhh as someone took a whiz in their john.

  He fixed his gaze on the house surrounded by a white picket fence and overflowing flower beds. A large wraparound porch spanned the bottom level. A swing sat at the far corner. The second level had a wraparound balcony filled with potted plants and white wicker patio furniture.

  It was far from the small log cabin Meg had shared with her father before his death, but then Dillon knew that was the idea—to bury the past and forget. This place had lots of windows and French doors and bright yellow trim. It looked as feminine as the woman who now lived inside it. Her car sat in the driveway, the brand-new yellow Mustang convertible, a far cry from the old brown Chevy pickup she’d driven her junior year of high school. The car was flashy, sexy, exciting.

  Just like Meg.

  He’d always thought so, even way back when she’d driven the truck. He’d just never had the courage to tell her, particularly after those disastrous first kisses.

  The house was one of the oldest in town, built sometime back in the 1800s before central air and heat. A portable air-conditioning unit sat in the window near a set of French doors on the second story. The engine purred steadily until Dillon narrowed his gaze. He felt the heat rush through his body as he sent the silent command. The motor coughed and sputtered. The purrrrr turned to a distinctive whine.

  The minutes ticked off one by one, as he waited for Meg to appear in the doorway.

  She was yards away, the room where she stood completely black, yet he saw every detail. She wore only a pink T-shirt and lace panties. Sweat dotted her brow and beaded on her skin as she threw the lock. Hauling open the doors, she stood there framed in the double doorway, the sheer curtains billowing behind her as she drank in the fresh night air. She took several deep breaths and her frustration mounted.

  She needed more relief than the cool breeze whispering through the trees.

  She’d been sleeping alone with the exception of a bright red vibrator she kept in her top nightstand drawer and she was desperate. She needed a real man, and she needed him soon.

  The thought carried on the breeze, through the trees and across the pavement. It slid into his brain where he stood yards away.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Wanting.

  Hunger gripped him, a fierce ache that started in his gut and spread through his entire body, making him tremble and shake. And suddenly it didn’t matter who came on to who. He wanted to touch her. He needed to.

 
He was going to.

  Right. Now.

  6

  SHE NEEDED TO DITCH THE failing window unit, take a bite out of her savings and invest in central air-conditioning.

  Meg came to that conclusion as she stood in the doorway and welcomed the faint rush of wind that whispered over her flushed skin. She’d been tapped out after paying the down payment on her dream home, and rather than replace the major appliances, she’d tried to get away with repairing and refurbishing.

  In the five years since buying her place, she’d fixed the upstairs unit not once, but four times now.

  The air conditioner grumbled and growled.

  Make that five.

  She made a mental note to call Mr. Abel, the air conditioning guy, first thing in the morning and moved on to the next window in the room. A few seconds later, she had all three of the room’s windows wide-open. Air filtered through the space, relieving some of the stifling heat that had pulled her from sleep.

  Then again, it hadn’t been just the heat that had kept her from nodding off. She’d spent the better part of the past hour tossing and turning, trying to push Dillon Cash completely out of her head.

  So what if he was sexy now? And handsome? And—with the exception of his clothes—had the whole hot-guy thing going? He was still just Dillon. Her buddy. Her pal. The guy who’d given her the worst kiss of her entire life.

  Sure, he appeared convincing, but she knew better. She wasn’t the least bit hot and bothered by his new image.

  She wasn’t.

  Ignoring a sudden ripple of awareness that drifted down her spine, she walked back over to the bed. She cast a quick glance at the open doorway. Moonlight spilled onto the balcony, illuminating the potted azaleas, the small white wicker table and matching chairs, a swaying wind chime. The soft ting ting echoed in her ears. Everything looked and sounded the same, yet she couldn’t escape the sudden inexplicable feeling that something was different.