by M. J. O'Shea
“Nothing. I’m just hungry. Do you want to go out for breakfast? I promise we’ll skip the places that the students go to.”
The thought of going to a student hangout was horrifying. “Just what I’d want,” Avery said with a laugh. “The students seeing me with a ton of sex bruises, clearly shagged out of my head.”
“Shagged out of your head? Really?” Tyson chuckled.
“Um, you were there last night. What do you think happened?” Avery was still having pleasure flashbacks to the night before. Just the thought of what they’d done and said made him shiver.
“I didn’t think we went to England,” Tyson muttered.
“Shut up,” Avery told him with a light shove.
Tyson chuckled and raised his eyebrow. “We did pretty good. But we can always do better.”
“Yes. Yes. But first I need to take a shower. I’m gross.”
Tyson nuzzled his face into Avery’s neck and then nibbled at the skin lightly. “Why bother when we’re going to get all gross again?” he asked. His voice was muffled against Avery’s neck.
Avery pushed a laughing Tyson away. “After breakfast. I’m going to end up passing out if I don’t get some eggs in me.”
Tyson snorted at that and then sat up in bed. The sheets slid down his pale creamy torso. He was beautiful, like some statue carved from a Renaissance sculptor’s vision out of pure marble dusted with pink. It shouldn’t have been shocking, but the level of his beauty was out of this world. Avery was still in awe of the fact that he got to touch him last night and hopefully very soon again.
“Who gets the shower first?” he murmured.
“You haven’t been in my bathroom yet,” Tyson said. “I think you’ll find that we’ll easily fit in there together.”
Turned out he was right and then some. Avery and Tyson had a very long and rather entertaining shower that ended up with Avery on his knees on travertine marble, making Tyson come like he’d wanted to that very first night on his couch. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the way Tyson groaned his name. The shower turned to breakfast, then an afternoon reading in Tyson’s library. Before he knew it, Avery was crawling into the passenger seat of Tyson’s Mercedes to go home and get ready for the week he was so not mentally prepared to handle.
If he could, he’d have started the weekend over again.
Chapter Eight
IT had to be close to 7:00 a.m. Avery wandered down to the kitchen while Tyson slept. He was thirsty, and he wouldn’t mind some of the leftovers they’d brought back from the restaurant that night. Last night. Avery smiled. Tyson had treated him to a delicious midweek dinner out, then an even better stress-relief massage, followed by another round of sex, which just got better and better even though he wouldn’t have thought that was possible. Hence his thirst.
He’d seen a back staircase from the upstairs hallway that he assumed went down to the kitchen area, like most back staircases in old mansions did. He thought it might be faster, and he wanted to get back in bed with Tyson as soon as possible.
Avery started down the far less grand back stairwell. It was still beautiful; the walls were painted a medium yellow, and the wood on the risers was polished and lustrous. There were art prints hanging on the wall, just like everywhere else. Avery ran his hand along the banister and checked out the art… and then he saw something that made him stand stock-still in the middle of the landing.
There was a painting there. Both style and signature told him it was a Basquiat—an artist whose original works were worth millions. Millions. While the painting was obviously Basquiat, Avery had never seen it before. Not even when he was writing a paper for art history on his favorite painter, poring over slides and examples to use in his oral presentation. Avery knew every Basquiat. And this one was… new.
What the hell?
He stood there staring at the painting, wondering if he’d honestly lost his mind. He’d been so thorough with that research, he thought he knew every piece backward and forward. But not this one. He wished desperately that his phone wasn’t plugged in upstairs or he’d sneak a picture of it. Avery was shaken and very confused. Tyson was obviously rich, and his family before him. But that rich? Rich enough to have an unknown painting like that? He supposed someone in Tyson’s family could have been friends with the artist, but what were the chances? And how did literally nobody know?
He tiptoed the rest of the way down to the kitchen to get water, since he couldn’t think of anything else to do other than stand there and stare at a painting that would be worth tens of millions easily, hung unceremoniously in a back stairwell, only to run into Mrs. Peggs. She was bouncy as always, dark hair in a high ponytail, and dressed in track pants and a pair of sneakers. She was brewing the tea he’d seen her drinking the few mornings he’d been there and up early enough. It didn’t smell very good. Avery wondered what was wrong with a good bag of English Breakfast.
“Morning, Mrs. Peggs.”
She jumped. “Oh, you frightened me, dear. Where’s Tyson?”
“Still asleep. I was thirsty, and I thought I’d bring our leftovers upstairs for breakfast.”
Mrs. Peggs’s forehead wrinkled for just a moment at the mention of food, but then she gave him one of her signature sunny smiles. “That’s good, dear. I’m sure Tyson will love that.”
Avery was dying to ask her about the art, but he knew it would be seriously out of line. She might not know anyway, so there was no point. He’d ask Tyson. Mrs. Peggs smiled one more time and then bounded out of the room with her odd-smelling tea and left Avery to stare contemplatively at the somewhat dated refrigerator.
The painting, the tea, this enormous monster of a house, the lack of eating until Avery made a point of watching. What was going on? He wanted so desperately not to notice; he didn’t want there to be a problem with Tyson. Tyson was so amazing in so many ways. But there were red flags, and he’d be an idiot if he kept ignoring them. Even if he desperately wanted to.
Avery heated up their leftovers and poured two glasses of water. A quick search found a tray that he could pile the food and water on. He decided against going by the Basquiat painting again. It would be too tempting to stare, and he’d probably end up standing there for far too long. Instead he went up the grand staircase in the main area of the house and found Tyson sitting up and scratching his head.
“Morning,” he said in that rough morning voice Avery loved.
“Morning. I heated up our food from last night.”
Tyson smiled warily. “How long have you been awake?”
Just long enough to see your priceless original art and have an odd exchange with your housekeeper, who never seems to actually clean.
“Not long.”
“Well, come get back in bed. Let’s eat. Pasta is always so good the next day.”
Avery couldn’t agree more. So he pushed down the weird feelings once again and handed Tyson the tray so he could clamber onto the high bed, and he settled into a slow morning of leftovers and kisses and instinct avoidance.
By the time he left for campus, though, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He didn’t know where to start looking. He knew there was something off, but what? What questions would he even ask?
Avery had some time before his first lecture, time he usually used to prepare his notes, but that day found him in his office frantically googling Basquiat paintings, hoping he was bad at research when he’d been back in school. He knew that wasn’t the case, he’d always been meticulous, but there was hope. Then he looked up symptoms—gorgeous, pale skin, no eating, moods can run hot and a little cold, which Tyson tried to hide but Avery had definitely noticed. He knew what he was going to find, and it was fucking ridiculous. It was. But Avery didn’t know what other conclusion to come to. Either Tyson was a reclusive twenty-seven-year-old gazillionaire who was beautiful and collected art and cars that only a rich grandpa could love, or else…
He was a vampire.
Avery felt like a moron for even thinking it. It was a myth,
and he was being stupid. But with someone like Tyson, someone who was very obviously not an average guy? He supposed there were about a million explanations. Too bad he couldn’t find one that added up.
THERE’D been something different about Avery since that morning he’d gone down to the kitchen for leftovers. Tyson would’ve had to be blind not to notice it. But he wanted to pretend there wasn’t something off, because even if Avery was giving him a weird vibe, even if he hesitated once or twice before kissing Tyson in the past couple of days, Tyson still was the happiest he’d ever been in his entire life. He was feeling so much that he didn’t know what to do with it. He felt like he couldn’t contain it in his body.
He was currently sitting in bed, not asleep, watching Avery breathe. He was beautiful in the early morning sun. He’d have to wake him up soon so he wouldn’t be late for his lectures. Avery’s bag was perched in the corner of the room, as well as a change of clothes. Tyson liked the idea that yesterday’s clothes were strewn over the stool in his closet, that Avery’s razor was on his sink, that he kept a toothbrush in the vanity. At least as of last night he did. Tyson reached out and brushed a hand down Avery’s spine.
“Hey. You should get up soon if you don’t want to have to rush.”
“Mmmph.” Avery turned and snuggled his face into Tyson’s hip. “Don’t want to go to work.”
Maybe Tyson was seeing tension in Avery where it wasn’t. At the moment, Avery was so sweet, so pliant, it felt like he’d imagined his hesitation the night before. Tyson tugged at Avery’s hair.
“I’ll call the university and tell them that Professor Cook canceled his lectures and all the students don’t get to learn today. He doesn’t want to go because he’s tired from sex.”
“No, no.” Avery giggled. “I have to go mold impressionable young minds.”
“What are you teaching today?”
“Acadians. Lycans. Anything to add to that?” Avery asked. “I know I asked you before and you didn’t answer, but you seem to be the authority on, well, everything.”
Okay. He wasn’t imagining it. There was something funny in Avery’s voice. Like he was baiting Tyson. He couldn’t have… found something, could he? What was there even to find?
Tyson shoved him gently. “I am not. Stop it. It’s time for you to get up, though.”
“Oh, sigh. I have to go take a shower in your incredible bathroom that might as well be a spa. Woe is me. I miss my crusty old bathtub with the rust stain.”
“Want me to shower with you?” Tyson asked.
“Yes. But no. I need to get my ass ready to go.”
Tyson couldn’t help it. He curved his hand down over Avery’s ass. Avery had to still be a little wet and ready from last night. “Feels pretty good as is to me.” Tyson brushed a finger over Avery’s hole. “Feels amazing, actually.”
“You’re filthy. I need to get up. At least that’s what you said.” Avery smirked and slid off the bed onto Tyson’s wooden floor.
Tyson treated himself to the view of a naked Avery tiptoeing around the room, getting his school clothes and his aftershave and grinning at Tyson before he went into the bathroom to shower.
By the time he came out, Tyson was partially dressed in some pajamas and his house slippers.
Avery rolled his eyes fondly. “Must be rough to be an heir. Lounging at home in your huge hereditary manor while the rest of us toil away.”
“I work hard at it.” Tyson grinned. “I do spend time managing my money.”
“Oh yes. Must move the piles of gold around so the peasants don’t get suspicious and steal it.”
Tyson laughed out loud at that. He tugged Avery in for a hug and a single lusty kiss. Then he pulled back and stared down at Avery.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“What?” Avery asked.
“You just… make me really happy. That’s corny, I know, but you do. I haven’t ever done anything like this before. I can’t believe this is real.”
Avery smiled and laid his freshly washed head on Tyson’s chest. “Me neither. You make me happy too, you know.”
Tyson squeezed him one more time and then let go. “C’mon. I’ll walk you down. It should only take you about ten minutes to get to campus from here. Maybe not even that. I still wish you’d let me drop you off.”
Avery rolled his eyes. “I think I can manage the many, many blocks all by myself.”
“Do I get to see you tonight?” Tyson asked.
“Yeah. I can manage that. I think Macy wants to hang out too, so you’ll probably have to go socialize with the hoi polloi.”
“You’re hilarious.”
THAT night, they decided to forgo dinner and just grabbed a snack before heading out. Avery hadn’t spent so much time having cocktails and being, like, social in his life. He was starting to get used to it. Even starting to enjoy it as its own thing and not just a means to be around Tyson.
He got friendly waves from Brooke and Dan, and a couple other familiar smiles from faces he was starting to remember week after week. The night was much like any other at first—chatting and drinks and warm cozy feelings, but sometime around twelve, things started to get weird.
Avery had gotten very attuned to Tyson’s moods over the past few weeks. He’d spent so much time with him that he felt when Tyson was even so much as a little tense. When the front door of the club opened and a group of tall, broad men came in, right away, Avery noticed there was something sinister about them—they seemed wrong somehow. Dan shared a quick glance with Brooke, and the two of them rounded the bar to meet them and clearly tried to run some interference.
One of the men made a hand gesture, and Brooke choked. She gripped the bar, with her face turning red. The man tightened his hand, and she looked like she was about to pass out. Dan went to save her, but he was stopped too. Tyson and then Donovan leapt out of the booth.
“What’s going on?” Avery asked.
“Stay here. Do not get up, no matter what happens. Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”
Tyson wove his way through the crowd, with Donovan trailing behind him. He got to the men and, without even flinching, pushed the one making the hand gesture. Brooke breathed again, and Dan collapsed against the bar.
“Get the hell out. Your kind isn’t wanted here,” Tyson said. His voice was low and growly, but Avery heard it all the way across the bar.
“What the fuck?” Macy looked terrified. Avery reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
Donovan and Tyson got right in the faces of the creepy men with sallow gaunt faces and oily black tendrils of hair.
“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” Donovan said. “I’m going to make a phone call in about thirty seconds. If you’re not gone, you’re going to have a hell of a lot more to worry about than me and him.” He flipped a thumb in Tyson’s direction.
Avery had never seen such an angry side to Donovan. Or Tyson, for that matter.
“What are they, the unofficial bouncers?” Macy muttered.
“I have no idea.”
He wished he knew what the hell was going on. There were two things he was certain of, though. Those men? Those tall, creepy oily men? They absolutely weren’t human. And second? They were clearly terrified of Tyson.
Chapter Nine
“I NEED to stop seeing Avery,” Tyson told Mrs. Peggs.
She glanced up from where she was reading the paper with her morning cup of tea. “What are you talking about, dear?”
Tyson took a big inhale. He hadn’t had the tea in a few days, and the smell turned his stomach. It had been years since the tea had smelled so repugnant. Maybe it was a combination of that and what had gone down the night before.
“He’s seen too much, noticed too many things. Some stuff went down last night that he’s going to ask a lot of questions about. Avery’s smart. Too smart. He’s going to figure out we’re not normal very soon, if he hasn’t already.”
There was very little chance after last night
that Avery hadn’t figured out the world Tyson came from was anything but normal. It was only a matter of time before he started questioning just how much Tyson belonged in that very unusual world.
“Do you want him to know?” Mrs. Peggs asked.
“You know that’s not safe. I haven’t been in a serious relationship since… well, her. And you weren’t around yet for that whole thing but know how well that turned out. How it’s still turning out.”
Mrs. Peggs’s great-grandmother hadn’t even been born when he’d gotten involved with Clara—aka the most serious mistake he’d ever made in his life. One that seemed to follow him to this day. Mrs. Peggs still knew all about it.
“Avery is not Clara. Not even remotely.” Mrs. Peggs made a face. She hadn’t had much contact with Clara over the years, but since Clara seemed to refuse to completely disappear from Tyson’s life, she’d had some. She also made her distaste of his ex very clear.
“I know he’s not, but I’m just scared. We don’t tell people. Ever. How would I even start?”
“It’ll be a lot easier since that lovely Harry Potter book,” Mrs. Peggs quipped. “Just tell him you got a hold of the sorcerer’s stone.”
Tyson snorted. “I mean, you’re not exactly wrong, are you? But I’m not going to tell him anything. It’s not safe.”
Nobody in New Orleans really knew what Tyson was, how he stayed young without drinking blood or howling at the moon. He was human. With enhancements. Even Donovan and Dan, who were the closest thing he had to friends outside of Mrs. Peggs, didn’t exactly know. They just knew he didn’t talk about it, and they didn’t ask questions. Everyone in his community knew better than to ask questions when someone wasn’t very forthcoming with information. Avery wasn’t versed in the social niceties that came along with his world.
“Well, I think you should do what you want, darling. I trust that one. And if he’s asking questions, you’re going to end up losing him if you don’t come clean eventually. I don’t think you want to lose him.”
