Succubs on Top gk-2

by Richelle Mead

  Like I didn't know what that was a reference to. Damn O'Neill's libido. I made a face and attempted a few more logical pleas. She rejected them all, indulgence soon giving way to annoyance. By then, Alec hadn't been able to control himself. He came back over and put a possessive arm around her. She looked up at him adoringly, and I knew a lost cause when I saw one.

  Seth and I met up back at my place, and he listened with admirable patience while I vented about men preying on women.

  "Isn't that what you do though?" We were sitting on my living-room floor, setting up a game of Scrabble.

  "I…no. It's not the same at all."

  "How so?"

  He held my eyes for a moment, and I finally looked away. "It just isn't. Do you want to go first?"

  He let the matter drop. Another nice thing about being with a non confrontational guy.

  I quickly discovered playing Scrabble with Seth was like playing Monopoly with Jerome. A losing battle from the first turn. Admittedly, my knowledge of more than two dozen languages gave me a large vocabulary, but I didn't craft or manipulate words on a regular basis. Seth was a master. He could study the board, spend a minute calculating, and then play some word that was not only worth tons of points but interesting too. Maize. Hexagon. Tawdry. Bisque.

  That last one was just cruel.

  Meanwhile, I was spelling words like as, lit, ill, and tee. And almost never on high-point spaces.

  "Wait," he said. "That's not a word."

  I looked down to where, in a moment of desperation, I'd played zixic on a triple-word-score space.

  "Uh, sure it is."

  "What's it mean?"

  "It's sort of like…quixotic, but with more…"

  "Bullshit?"

  I laughed out loud. I'd never heard him swear before.

  "More zeal. Hence the z."

  "Uh-huh. Use it in a sentence."

  "Um…'You are a zixic writer.'"

  "I don't believe this."

  "That you're zixic?"

  "That you're trying to cheat at Scrabble." He leaned back against my couch, shaking his head. "I mean, I was ready to accept the whole evil thing, but this is kind of extreme. "

  "Hey, it's not cheating. Just because your limited vocabulary doesn't include this word doesn't mean there's anything sinister going on."

  "Care to back that up with a dictionary?"

  "Hey," I said haughtily, "I don't appreciate your zixistic tone."

  "If you weren't such a zixy woman, I'd be angry."

  "Your zixicism is infuriating."

  The game forgotten, we spent the next twenty minutes coming up with as many zix variations as we could. Interestingly, it seemed to function just as well as a suffix as a prefix. I suspected that if Bastien had heard this conversation, I'd be accused of more boring geekiness.

  Seth and I finally went to bed on the verge of hysterics, both of us still giggling once we were wrapped up in my covers.

  "You smell good," I told him, my face close to his neck. "What cologne is that?"

  He stifled a yawn. "I don't wear cologne. Too strong."

  "You must." I pressed my face closer.

  "Hey, be careful. You're giving me funny ideas."

  He had skin and sweat smells unique to him and him alone, deliriously delicious. With that, however, was a faint scent of something else. Almost like apples, but not in a girly, boutique sort of way. It was fleeting and lovely, mingled with musk and soft leather.

  "No, it's something. You must. Is it your deodorant?"

  "Oh," he mumbled, yawning again. "I bet it's this soap Andrea and Terry got me. Came as part of some set."

  "Mmm. It's perfect." It made me want to eat his neck— among other things. "You know, you still owe me pancakes. I think I could go for…apple cinnamon ones now. "

  "Apple cinnamon? You sure are demanding."

  "It's all right. I think you're man enough for it."

  "Thetis, if I actually believed you had either apples or cinnamon in your kitchen, I'd make them for you right now."

  I didn't answer. I was pretty sure I had some year-old Apple Jacks, but that was about it.

  Seth gave a low laugh at my silence and then kissed my temple. "I don't know how anyone could think you were Genevieve. I couldn't make up someone like you in a thousand years."

  I considered that, not entirely sure if it was a compliment or not. "How do you come up with your characters then?"

  He laughed again. "If I didn't know any better—and I'm sure I do—I'd say that sounds suspiciously like 'Where do you get your ideas from?'"

  I blushed in the darkness. When he and I had first met, I'd taken a haughty high ground over that question, making fun of the fans that so often asked him that.

  "Hey, it's a totally different question."

  I could sense his amusement as he contemplated an answer. Part of the reason he stumbled in conversation sometimes was because he didn't like to blurt things out. He chose his words carefully.

  "They come from my head, I guess. The stories too. They live there, screaming to get out. If I didn't write them down, they'd eat me up. Give me less of a grip on the real world than I already have."

  "Not that I'm complaining…but, if there's so much inside, do you even need to care about the real world?"

  "Well, that's the paradox. The stories are born in my head, but my inner self is fueled by my outer self. Symbiotic relationship of sorts. The stories' ideas wouldn't come if I didn't have experiences to draw on. Jealousy. Love. Lust. Anger. Heartache. All that stuff."

  Something pulled inside of me. "You had your heart broken much?"

  He paused. "Of course. Everyone does. Part of life."

  "Tell me her name. I'll kick her ass. I don't want anyone hurting you."

  He rested his face against my hair, his tone even and gentle when he spoke. "You're wondrous and powerful and gifted, but even you can't save me from hurting. No one can do that for anyone. I can make things perfect in the fictions I create, but the real world isn't so kind. That's just how it is. And anyway, for every bad thing in life, there are more good things to tip the balance."

  "Like what?"

  "Like little blonde nieces. And royalty checks. And you."

  I sighed and relaxed into him. His grip on me shifted into something more comfortable, and in a few minutes he was asleep. Amazing.

  I lay snuggled with him for a while, but sleep proved more elusive for me this time, as I turned over his words. I thought about someone breaking his heart and wondered if I'd be the next culprit, intentionally or otherwise.

  When sleep came, I immediately dropped into a steamy dream in which Seth and I were having mad, passionate sex. He'd tied my hands to my bedposts, and naturally, he was huge. Each thrust made my headboard bang against the wall, so much so that my neighbors complained.

  I woke up with a start, suddenly thinking being so entwined with him wasn't such a great idea. Of course, I was apparently the only one who had a problem with it. Seth slept on peacefully and heavily, like I wasn't even there, no doubt having properly chaste dreams. A paradigm of virtue and resolve.

  I watched him for a long time, admiring the way the soft lighting fell across his features. The fit muscles of his upper body. Eyelashes I wished I could have had as a mortal. Biting my lip, I resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. It was lust and something else, something that just wanted to be close to him. It scared me. Maybe he wasn't the only one who could walk away from this with a broken heart.

  I wiggled my own weak self away to the other side of the bed, putting what space I could between us. As I lay there, my back to him, Aubrey jumped up and lay next to my stomach. I stroked her black-speckled white head and sighed.

  "They were all wrong, Aub," I whispered. "There's at least one guy in this world not trying to get laid."

  CHAPTER 6

  One thing about working in a bookstore is you have immediate access to print media:

  Nocturnal Admission is a treat for the s
enses, one of those rare jewels that emerges from the dark obscurity of small clubs and restaurants. Of course, after last night's performance at the Verona, it's unlikely they'll be playing shoddy venues again. Nocturnal Admission is well on its way to becoming a household name—not only at the local level, but the national one as well.

  The opening staff and I oohed and aahed over the concert review in the Seattle Times, all of us clustering around the information desk, rereading our favorite quotes over and over. The writer had even provided a few words of Doug's bio— after several other lines praising his voice and onstage persona—adding that he worked at a "local bookstore." We loved that; the nondescript reference almost made us feel like celebrities too.

  I let them chat on a bit longer, reveling in my own pride and pleasure for Doug, before finally breaking things up. "All right, kids, I hate to crack the whip, but I see customers at the door. "

  They dispersed reluctantly, but I saw Andy smirking when he thought I didn't notice him whispering something to Casey. The only word I caught was "whip." Charming. One would think having a dominatrix reputation would at least make me a more formidable authority figure, rather than a source of ridicule.

  And today, I was the only authority figure. Paige was out sick again, so I had to unofficially work both her job and my own. At least the staff was in good form despite the late night, which made things easier.

  Casey seemed unaffected by last night, which I found remarkable. Maybe it was the resilience of youth. After drinking and smoking that much, I doubted I'd have been in as good a shape as she was—and I had the advantage of supernatural healing and recovery. My misgivings about Alec must have been premature, I decided, considering what a good mood she appeared to be in.

  She smiled every time I saw her during the day and was always ready with a friendly comment to customers and coworkers alike. When I stopped by to take something from a neighboring register, I heard a customer ask her if she knew offhand whether his books would total under twenty-five dollars or not. She flipped through the stack expertly and had an answer within ten seconds.

  "With tax, $26.57. Put this one back, and you'll be at $22.88. Closest you can get without going over."

  "Did you do that all in your head?" I asked her later.

  Dimples showed in her pretty cheeks. "I'm an accounting major."

  "Yeah, but my accountant sure as hell doesn't do my taxes in his head."

  "Of course not. But this stuff's easy."

  Doug came in at noon, much to the delight of the others. Practically strutting, he couldn't stop crowing about the review and kept asking me if I'd read such-and-such in the article. I had to assure him repeatedly that I'd read it all.

  Like Casey, he too acted untouched by last night's partying. He worked and bounced around with what was becoming his trademark energy. Compared to the two of them, I felt downright curmudgeonly, not to mention inadequate. Sheesh. What were immortality and shape-shifting next to superhuman computations and dazzling stage performances?

  When I returned from my lunch break, he practically sprinted up to me. "Kincaid, Kincaid—you gotta help me out."

  "What's wrong?"

  He inclined his head toward one of the registers. Alec stood leaning against it, flirting with Casey. She smiled and nodded enthusiastically at something he said.

  "Alec came by to tell me he got us a major audition over at the Blue Gallery. We have got to go practice. Stat."

  "Good grief. Slow down on the italics."

  "Kincaid, I mean it! You have to cover for me. No one’ll know I left. These guys don't care, and Paige and Warren won't be in."

  "How long do you need?"

  "The rest of the day."

  "The rest of the—that's going to be over twelve hours for me! Besides, I can't close. I'm going to a play downtown." Seth had just secured us some last minute tickets.

  "Then…stay as late as you can. Janice’ll handle closing."

  I hesitated. Warren preferred that the manager or one of the assistant managers close, but Doug was right. Janice could handle it.

  "Kin -caid," he begged. "Please. I need this. You know I do."

  Doug had always been charming and irresistible. Something about him today particularly appealed to me. A master working another master, apparently. When I gave in to his pleas, he picked me up and spun me around in a most undignified way. Two minutes later, he and Alec left, and I settled in for a long day.

  When it finally neared its end, I felt certain the store would burn to the ground in my absence. Dragging myself away at last, I drove downtown, found parking, and sprinted into the theatre just as the lights were going down. Breathless, I slid into a seat between Seth and his thirteen-year-old niece Brandy. On the other side of him, Seth's brother and sister-in-law waved to me.

  Brandy grinned. She'd been shy the first time we met but now seemed to regard me as the older sister she didn't have. I adored her too. If Seth and I ever split up, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to handle keeping away from his family.

  "I didn't think you'd make it," she told me, her features faintly discernible in the dim lighting. In days long past, people would have said she and her mother had "flaxen" hair, but no one really used that term anymore. Still, I always thought it appropriate when I saw that pale shade of gold.

  "Just making a fashionably late entrance," I whispered back. "Remember that when you're older. It keeps men guessing. Once they start presuming anything, there's no living with them."

  Brandy giggled. Seth only smiled, but his eyes radiated approval, as he assessed me. I wore wine-colored silk and had my hair in a French twist. His eyes, I'd long since discovered, could be as eloquent and expressive as his pen. The messages they sent me now hardly seemed decent for a public setting. He moved his hand over to cover mine, so that both rested on my thigh, and as the night progressed, I found myself thinking more about that hand placement than the excellent play.

  Afterward, he and I stood with his family in the lobby for a while, catching up. Terry and Andrea Mortensen were great people who always treated me with genuine kindness. From what I'd learned of Seth's antisocial habits, I think they regarded me as some sort of last hope for him. Brandy affirmed as much when she and I dashed to the restroom together.

  "Dad told Uncle Seth not to screw things up," she informed me as we washed our hands. "He said even if Uncle Seth is famous, him getting a woman like you defies belief."

  I laughed and smoothed down the skirt of my dress. "I don't know about that. I don't think your dad gives your uncle enough credit. "

  Brandy gave me a sage look, worthy of someone much older. "Uncle Seth spent last Valentine's Day at a library."

  We returned to the lobby and spoke a bit more before Terry declared they needed to rescue the babysitter who'd been left with their other four daughters. Andrea touched my arm as they prepared to leave.

  "You're coming to Seth's birthday party, aren't you?"

  I looked at all of them in surprise. "When is it?"

  "Thanksgiving. They fall on the same day every once in a while."

  "It's a good ploy to get turkey and presents," remarked Terry. He was shorter and more clean-shaven than Seth but otherwise bore a fair resemblance to his older brother.

  "I didn't even know it was coming up." I shot Seth an accusing look.

  "I forgot." For anyone else, that would probably have been a lie, but I believed him.

  "So you'll be there?" Andrea again gave me the impression they were desperate to foster Seth's love life. I could have probably negotiated a stipend for showing up.

  "With bells on."

  Seth and I went back to his place this time. I shape-shifted into my favorite pajamas—flannel pants and a cami—and crawled into bed with him. His bed was bigger than mine and had a feather duvet, as well as a teddy bear named Damocles who wore a University of Chicago T-shirt.

  Still a little wound up, we talked in the dark about Emerald City for a while, then moved on to books in
general. We had a vast array of familiar literature in our repertoire, and we jumped around authors and genres. We both admired Toni Morrison and Tennessee Williams. Neither of us could get through Anna Karenina. Seth hated Jane Austen, whom I adored. As we debated back and forth, I was relieved to be reminded we truly did have a lot in common. Sex was not the only thing between us, even if it was the only thing that stood between us.

  At some point in the literary discussion, I began to drift off. The long day had worn me out, and sleep felt luxurious. Seth seemed tired too. He and I drew close, lying on our sides, legs touching.

  Random thoughts whispered in my head as unconsciousness tugged at me. How Aubrey was doing. Whether Paige's baby would be a boy or a girl. If Bastien was any closer to bedding Dana. How in the world Doug's band had become so amazing so quickly.

  I opened my eyes a couple hours later, uncertain what had woken me. One of those weird, unseen things that suddenly break you out of sleep, I guessed. Quiet darkness still enveloped us with no sign of morning in sight. A little moonlight filtered inside, casting funny shadows around the desk and other bedroom furniture. Unlike my place in Queen Anne, car traffic here dropped off at night, so I heard only the sound of breathing and electrical humming.

  Then I noticed that Seth and I had moved our bodies even nearer than before. Our legs wrapped around each other pretzel-style, our arms kept us close together. His scent flooded my nose. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed his were open as well. Intense pools of darkness. He was watching me.

  Still a little sleepy, I moved my hand up to his neck, twining my fingers in his hair, drawing my face closer to his. His hand rested on the small of my back where the tank top rose away from my flannel pajama bottoms. He touched the skin there just as he had at the concert, his hand sliding toward my side, tracing the curve of my hip before running toward my thigh. The fingers that beat such a steady tattoo on computer keys were as delicate as feathers on me.

  My eyes never left his as we touched each other, and I swore I could hear my heart thundering in my ears. Then, despite some screaming voice in the back of my foggy brain, I pushed my mouth toward his and kissed him. Our lips were tentative at first, as though surprised they had gotten this far. We tasted each other, slowly and gently. His hand on the back of my thigh slid upward, and something about shy Seth Mortensen stroking my ass sent a thrill through me. A soft exhalation lodged in my throat, and as my tongue explored past his lips, seeking more, he suddenly pushed me onto my back with an urgency that I think astonished both of us. His other hand slid up under my shirt and cupped the bottom of a breast, and through his boxers, I could tell that more than just his hands and lips wanted this to progress.