And still we wait as Bianca rises.
She is alone now, her entourage having known when to make themselves disappear.
On her $760 heels, she is nearly Reece’s height, but his glower makes him somewhat larger than life.
I say, “OK,” hoping my voice will snap him out of it, but he barely glances my way.
Abby and I turn, and the minute we’re out the doorway, it slams shut all by itself, as if Nightshade Academy is suddenly . . . haunted.
Back in the hallway, we stow the flowers and candy in Abby’s locker because, let’s face it, I’m allergic to the first and she’s halfway through the other.
“What was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” I say, grabbing my AP English book, “but I’d love to be a fly on the wall.”
Abby chews her lips as she walks with me to our next class. “I dunno,” she says dubiously, avoiding eye contact. “Looked like a lot of sexual tension there, if you know what I mean.”
“No,” I snap before considering it. Then: “Really? You think?”
“I don’t know.” She sighs, slowing down to let a group of obnoxious freshmen pass. “I hope not. If he was stalking you, he should have better taste than that.”
I nod. “I mean, I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Well, you and Bianca have a history, after all.”
“I’d hardly call it a history.” I laugh as we head down D-wing.
“She stole that stupid snowboarder from you. You don’t consider that history?”
“OK, for one, she didn’t steal him; I just happened to break up with him the same day they started dating.”
“I would hardly call making out in the detention room dating, but if you want to live in your fictional world, I guess I can’t blame you.”
“What?” I say as we finally enter AP English together, sliding into our seats, again near the back of the room. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” she whispers, “you tend to create these stories for yourself, and not just in your books.”
“Like what stories?” I struggle to keep my voice down.
A few kids up front slide their chairs back ever so slightly to eavesdrop.
“Like your snowboarder dude story. He did too break up with you first, because Bianca seduced him. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.” I know it’s the truth. Does she think I don’t know that? That I don’t remember it? The months and months of kicking myself for not seeing the signs earlier, and then the months and months after that, pining for the guy even though I knew how pitiful it looked?
And how little he cared?
I shake my head until I can’t deny it any longer, then murmur, “So, what, you think history is repeating itself?”
“We’ll see,” she says.
“And pretty soon,” I add, nodding toward the door.
After all, I couldn’t help but notice on his schedule that both Bianca and Reece share this class with us. We watch the door in silence, waiting for them to appear. We’re not the only ones; Bianca’s posse sit in the very back row, awaiting their lord and master.
Second bell rings and Mr. Richards appears, looking fresh-faced and handsome, as always.
Abby gives him a special smile, and I return my focus to the doorway.
A few last-minute stragglers come in, none of them as shockingly handsome as either Bianca or Reece.
By the time third bell rings, Abby is holding my hand. Two minutes later I know in my heart that history is repeating itself, after all. They’re not coming to class. They’re probably skipping right now, heading for the nearest cheap hotel to rip each other’s clothes off and do who knows what to each other, Lord knows how many times, before curfew tonight.
I shake my head.
Abby “tsk-tsks” in her told-you-so voice. Who can blame her? She’s right, after all. Bianca has stolen another man from me, and this time it took only one period.
Chapter 4
“So, I don’t get it,” says Wyatt, peering into the dorm-size fridge under our sink after school that day. “The guy shows up at your book signing last night, asks for your autograph—smooth move, by the way; I need to add that to the Wyatt Repertoire—begs you to show him around school the next day, shows up late, showers you with affection, gives you flowers you can’t smell and candy you can’t eat, gets into it with Bianca over your honor, and then . . . disappears? With that snooty Bianca, of all people?”
He emerges triumphantly with the last diet soda, pops the top before asking if I want any (or even if he can have any), and plops down on the love seat opposite the couch. I wonder if he knows, if he has a single inkling, how much I like it when he’s around, and how much it would mean if he noticed—just once.
“Pretty much,” I say.
He flinches. “I’ve heard of playing hard to get, but either the dude’s got mad skills or he’s just . . . flaky. I mean, you? Bianca? It’s apples and oranges. He needs to make up his mind whether he wants ground chuck or filet mignon, you know what I mean?”
“That depends.” I smile, just shy of flirting. “Am I the ground chuck in this story? Or the filet mignon?”
“What do you think?” He laughs over his half-finished soda and, in typical Wyatt style, neither confirms nor denies his answer. “Either way, are you sure this guy’s for you?”
“What do you mean for me, Wyatt? It’s not like we’re promised to each other or anything. I was just venting; that’s all. Forget I said anything.”
Wyatt eyes me coolly over the shiny silver soda can. “Whoa, easy there. What else should I think? I mean, I stop by for a casual social visit, you’re pining away, and the first thing out of your mouth is this tirade about some guy named Reece—that’s a fake name if ever I’ve heard one, by the way, and I’m a model, so I should know—and you expect me to think you’re not interested in the guy?”
I can’t tell if he’s mad, bored, jealous, or all three. That’s the problem with Wyatt; those endless blue eyes hide all his secrets.
I sigh. “I’m not sure if I’m interested. I mean, maybe I am. I just . . . When did Abby say she’d get back?”
He pulls a cell phone from his jacket, scrolls until he finds her text, and reads it for me: “Another late shoot, no extras needed, working on that screen credit for you. Tell Nora I’ll be home after dinner.”
He looks at me skeptically. “What, you’d rather talk about this with her?”
“Yeah, frankly,” I snap.
He’s used to it by now. That’s what he gets for being a BFF to two FFs (frustrating females).
“Look, I can relate as good as Abby does,” he says.
“As well as Abby does,” I correct, not really meaning to. A bad habit.
“Whatever. I’m saying, I saw He’s Just Not That Into You. I’m down. I’m hip.”
“You are down, you are hip, you have seen He’s Just Not That Into You, but you’re still a player, and you can’t relate to someone—especially a girl—who isn’t.”
“A player? Me? Please.” He crumples the empty soda can and tosses it—for a miss—toward the half-size trash can under the sink.
“Wyatt, please, you’ve dated three models, two of them super-, twelve starlets, including Abby for two months last year, four girls from the Swedish volleyball team—two at the same time—so how are you not a player?”
“Please. Most of those were publicity stunts. Four of the starlets were gay, the models were airheads, the volleyball girls I’ll give you, but can you blame me?”
“Not really,” I concede, trying to remain impartial even though every cell in my body seethes with jealousy. “I guess it’s hard not to get dates when you’re posing half-naked on a billboard at Sunset Boulevard.”
“Exactly. Those girls don’t want me; they want the image of me they see in magazines or whatnot.”
His jacket is open, the white T-shirt underneath stretched across his pecs and six-pack abs as if it were designed especially for him. For all I know
, it could have been.
The problem with a place like Nightshade Academy is there are no average-looking people to commiserate with. Seriously, people think my life is glamorous because of the books, but at the end of the day, I’m just another mousy bookworm tapping away at the keys behind the scenes while Abby and Wyatt are in front of the camera, smiling and seducing people all over the world.
There are very few people here who aren’t traffic-stoppingly beautiful. Even the do-nothing celebs like Bianca and her minions are gorgeous, as if their genes know they’re rich and respond accordingly.
You walk through the halls, and it’s like you’ve just shown up at an audition for America’s Top Model. You meander through the cafeteria line with a few bowls of mac and cheese, and the anorexics all look at you like you’re feeding on live cats or something!
“You wouldn’t understand,” I hear myself grumbling.
“Try me,” Wyatt says, giving me his best I’m listening smile.
As usual, I fall for it.
As usual, he doesn’t let me down.
Here’s the thing about Wyatt: beautiful as he is, I would still crush hard on him even if he looked like Elmer Fudd, because he’s just a solid, righteous dude. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t just become your friend but literally wedges his way into your life. He just shows up, expecting to be charming and actually being charming. Like popping into the dorm suite unannounced, no knocking, just, “Hey, ladies, here I am!” Or the way he texts you all day long with funny stories about classmates or teachers, or the way he remembers your birthday—OK, four days late despite about half a dozen social media alerts, but still—with half-price coconut Easter eggs because your birthday is April 12 and you can’t be mad at him, ever, because who else remembers coconut is your favorite?
Even Abby mixes it up and always gets me crème eggs, which are just gross, but I have to eat them anyway because she’s so proud she thinks she’s remembered my favorite.
Is it any wonder I’ve been secretly in love with the guy since, like, the first day I met him?
It was right after new student orientation, and I’d just come from my counselor’s office, loaded down with paperwork and rule books and the keys to my suite. I was already a freshman transplanted from my little Florida surf town, intimidated by this famous school that accepts only “exceptional boys and girls”—exceptionally beautiful boys and girls, from what I’d just seen walking across campus. And so what do I find when I step off the elevator on my very first day at Nightshade Academy but a dark-haired god asleep on the floor outside his dorm suite door.
And why is he passed out two doors from mine?
Only because he left his keys at some supermodel’s house (of course) the night before and is locked out.
He was still in his party clothes that morning: tight gray jeans and a black shirt unbuttoned to his navel, and although I’d never even met my future roommate, Abby, I let him sleep it off on our (old) couch.
When she finally got up and saw him lying there, she rolled her eyes and warned, “Don’t fall in love with him, Nora. He’s the nicest guy who’ll ever break your heart.”
She’d been right, of course, but not too right to fall in love with him herself. It didn’t last long, and it’s not something any of us talk about much anymore, but the brief romance between my two BFFs is the elephant in every room—even if I’m the only one who still feels its crushing weight every time I see their knowing glances from across the room.
Now we both call him our best friend, even though we’d each agree to marry him—or fight to the death trying—if he ever even got close to bending on one knee.
For any reason.
I’m talking to pick up a piece of trash from the floor!
“I just—it’s confusing,” I say. “He acts like he’s all into me one minute. Showing up at my book signing like that, letting me see his schedule, begging me to show him around school. Flowers and chocolates. Then he dumps me.”
“Guys do that. It’s all part of the game.”
“I don’t play those games.”
“That’s why you haven’t been on a date since that stupid snowboarder broke your heart.”
“He didn’t break my heart, OK? What is it with everybody? I got emotionally attached, he’s in love with his stupid board and his money and his Xbox and anything in a short skirt—or preferably no skirt—so we very maturely decided to go our separate ways.”
He smirks. “Ah, so that’s why you made the bad guy in your very next book a snowboarder. Because you’re sooooo mature.”
I toss a silk throw pillow at his almost concave stomach. “So you do read my books?”
He puts one long, tan finger to his full lips. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone, or you’ll damage my street cred.”
“On what street do you have cred, Wyatt? Besides Rodeo Drive.”
He shrugs, grabs the bag of corn chips from the coffee table, counts out three, and chews them carefully while eyeing me from his love seat.
“Nora, obviously this guy wants something from you. The schedule-in-the-book trick? Classic come-on. You’re just too insecure to realize it. So that didn’t work, and he upped his game with the chocolates-and-flowers trick. Hey, just ’cause Bianca caused him to lose his mojo doesn’t mean he’s not still into you.”
“So then where did he go all day? And where was Bianca? You know her—she’d rather eat her arm than miss a minute of school. Nightshade is like her own personal catwalk. The only way she would miss is if some hot new guy convinced her to play hooky.”
“I don’t think they call it hooky anymore. I think it’s called ditching now.”
“Who cares?”
“Well, as a writer, I figure you’d want to pay attention to those kinds of details.”
“The only details I want right now are what happened between Bianca and Reece all day.”
“You sure about that?” he asks, looking at his watch.
“No. Not really.”
Chapter 5
Scarlet Stain holds on to the fire escape railing, one trembling hand clutching the cold, hard steel of the ladder and the other gripping her sword. Count Victus’s blood is still fresh and drips off the sharp blade to the darkened alley six stories below.
From above comes the rustling of what she knows to be a black satin cape, its edges curling around the count’s ankles as he hovers just out of reach.
“I don’t know why you won’t let me turn you, dear.” He sighs, warm breath oozing like a summer breeze across the otherwise frigid night. It splashes Scarlet’s cheeks like an almost welcome embrace. “Life, or should I say the afterlife, would be so much . . . simpler.”
Then he bares his fangs, so glistening and white, his lips still red and raw from gorging on his latest victim, another innocent Scarlet pledged and failed to protect.
As he covers the distance between them, eyes piercing, Scarlet has only one escape: straight down. She lets go of the fire escape, so quickly that even the count, with all his miraculously immortal superpowers, can’t stop her.
Nor, curiously, does he try.
She falls, the weight of the world on her shoulders, rushing her speedily toward the earth. Not even the count can save her now.
That is, if he even wanted to . . .
I hit Save and look away from the keyboard, rubbing my eyes with one hand as I reach for my coffee cup with the other.
Around me the bright café is bustling, the smells of freshly brewed cappuccino, frothy milk, hot chai tea, and nutmeg filling the air. The hum of informed, energetic conversation trills from most tables, while the rest feature solitary keyboard-tapping caffeine jockeys like me.
I always come to the Hallowed Grounds café when it’s time to write another chapter. My room is too small, and the dorm suite phone is always ringing if Abby’s not there, or she’s gabbing on it if she is.
Here I’m not Nora Falcon, best-selling author, but just another anonymous face bathed in the blue glow from my lapt
op monitor. Here I can be anyone I want to be. A high school senior, filling out applications for Harvard or Yale. A sexy (OK, not-so-sexy) single, writing up my profile for some online dating site. An irate customer, shooting off a profanity-laced complaint to the Hallowed Grounds corporate website. Or, considering my 90210 zip code, just another struggling writer, typing up a screenplay between waitressing gigs.
I enjoy the anonymity while nibbling on an almond biscotti and searching for the next scene.
I have no idea what’s going to happen to Scarlet now that she’s falling through the air with no net or hero to save her.
That’s just the problem. I never do.
Either I’ll figure out a way for her to survive the fall just before she lands in the wet, smelly alley below—or I’ll go back and do a rewrite.
Unfortunately, I’ve been doing more rewriting than writing lately, which could be why my publisher keeps hounding me to deliver the fifth installment in the Better off Bled series.
I stare at the half-empty page, envious of the other writers scattered around me; their fingers seem to always be flying, their heads always down, writing with purpose and passion.
The way I used to do.
Back then I’d been just another vannabe, a freshman in Barracuda Bay High School, entering writing contest after writing contest with my crazy stories about Scarlet Stain and her archenemy, the evil vampire Count Victus.
We didn’t have a computer at home (insert commiserating aws here), so I’d get to school early, stay late, and even eat lunch in front of my favorite monitor in the computer lab: the last one all the way to the right.
I’d type and type and type and type. The lab administrator in his glass-walled office, a plump guy by the name of Mr. Mason, would shake his head in marvel as he downed another donut.
Nothing came of it, not a penny, not a ribbon, not a prize, until one day I got a call from the folks at Hemoglobin Press, the premiere publisher of fang fiction, otherwise known as vampire literature.
Months earlier I’d entered one of their contests, overlooking the fact that the first prize was a book contract from the publisher—and never in a million years expected to win.
The Vampire Book of the Month Club Page 4
