by Aimer Boyz
THE EXPRESSION, SLEEP like the dead, had always struck Symon as funny because the dead don’t sleep. They don’t move a whole hell of a lot either. Symon didn’t roll over, or curl up, or snuggle into his pillow. He was dead, until he wasn’t.
The sun set, Symon’s eyes snapped open going straight to the cell phone sitting on the night table, the ominous opening bars of the theme music from Jaws running through his head. It’s one fucking phone number, he told himself, snagging the phone off the table.
Okay, yes, he’d spent an unprecedented amount of time dwelling on his latest meal, but he’d never intended to see the man again. Pick-ups, or, as Symon thought of them, take-away dinners, were disposable. That was the whole point. Indulge, enjoy, toss your napkin, and move on.
Michael was no stranger to the concept, either. He hadn’t volunteered his number or asked for Symon’s, when he’d left Wednesday night. They had both abided by the one-night-only rules and then last night happened.
Symon stared at the create contact option waiting patiently for his decision. He’d screwed up. Arrogant shit that he was, he'd expected Michael to say yes, to come back to his hotel with him last night. Gobsmacked when Michael said no, he’d rattled off his cell number like some trained parrot. Now, Michael had his number, and he had Michael’s.
Symon didn’t call prey. He didn’t chat, or text, or tweet them. He fed, full stop.
Yeah? So, what was that last night, asking Michael back to the hotel?
An impulse, an aberration, a brain fart?
You like him.
Shut up.
Symon tried to delete the number from recent calls, but his new Android phone defeated him. He swiped right, he swiped left. He tapped the three little dots, nothing. Unlike Etienne, who spent his nights communing with computer screens and data from stock markets around the world, Symon wasn’t good with technology. Not a big surprise, considering he was born in a time when sending a message meant ink and a wax seal.
In the shower, he worked shampoo through his hair, his mind on the tricky process of adapting an ice wine to vampire physiology. With the higher sugar content of ice wine, it was going to take some serious tweaking. Symon needed a place to work the kinks out, he needed a winery.
At the Gala, Stephane Desjardins had hinted that Santos Wines might be open to an offer. He’d said—
Symon saw Stephane cheering the folk dancers on, saw Michael in line with the others, his open jacket sliding across his ass with every step. “Shit.” He jabbed at his right eye, wiped the shampoo away, and turned his face up to the water.
What was that again? Michael was just dinner?
Symon rinsed off, pretended not to hear his own mind laughing at him.
Dressed, Symon grabbed his wallet, and dug his phone out of the folds of the duvet. Determined to delete Michael’s number, he tried holding his finger in place, and got it right this time. Michael’s number slid sideways and the delete option appeared at the top of the screen. Triumphant, Symon grinned at the phone—and shoved it into his back pocket.
Outside, it was full dark, and the wind didn’t make the night any warmer. Symon turned his jacket collar up against the cold, buried his hands in his pockets, and walked towards the collection of white tents he’d seen from the window of his hotel room.
The Ice Wine Village, a wine tasting extravaganza, had taken over a section of Queen Street. A collection of white tents and patio heaters, The Village added a winter carnival feel to the post card pretty that was Queen Street. Over the weekend, from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m., guests migrated from one tent to the next sampling wines and snacking on miniature apple fritters. At least, that’s what Symon had been told. It’s not like he’d seen any of the action himself, he’d been dead until 5:13 p.m.
As he walked past the fenced-off area, Symon could see that an attempt had been made to mitigate the parking lot effect of the bare blacktop. Baby fir trees, Adirondack chairs and, of course, the ever-present ice sculptures, had been scattered amid the tents.
On either side of the Ice Wine Village, the nineteenth century homes lining Queen Street had been subtly converted into stores and restaurants. Red brick and gingerbread trim, snow dusted lawns and lamp light. A romantic water colour dipped in frost bite.
January, being a slow month for tourists, most of the shops closed early. Symon wandered in an out of the few that were still open and found the typical tourist junk plus maple everything. Maple syrup, maple chocolates and cookies, maple ice cream. He tried to remember, a pack of maple-shaped cookies in his hand, if he’d ever tasted maple. Probably not. By the time he’d come to the New World for the first time, he’d already been Vampire.
Wine Country Vintners didn’t do maple cookies, they did wine, and they knew their stuff. Symon spent almost an hour talking ice wine with the staff there emerging with four bottles: A Cabernet Franc, a Riesling, and two bottles of Vidal. He couldn’t drink any of them, but he knew someone who could.
The wine safely tucked in the crook of his left arm; Symon tapped out a text message. ‘I’ve got ice wine that needs tasting. Interested?’ He hit send, slipped his phone away, and turned back towards the hotel.
As he passed the clock tower that stood sentinel in the middle of Queen Street, his pocket vibrated with Michael’s response. ‘Maybe,’ Dimple Man had texted. ‘Depends.’
One handed, Symon tapped out, ‘On what?’
‘You drinking?’
‘I can’t drink these wines,’ Symon texted, but Michael knew that.
‘Not the wine, moron. Me.’
Symon stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, people detouring around him. A fucking text message and he was on one of those amusement park rides, upside down and off-kilter. He stared at the words on his screen, but he couldn’t tell what Michael was thinking. He could mean if you’re looking for blood get the fuck away from me or…‘You offering?’
‘Abso-fucking-lutely.’
Symon barked out a laugh, started walking again, thumb tapping at his phone. ‘Call me moron again and I won’t sink anything into you.’
‘Sorry, Fido. Working till nine. Get your fangs out.’
Fido was only slightly more acceptable than moron, but the smile was still on Symon’s face as he walked into the hotel lobby. He was going to have to work on his prey’s manners, he thought, taking the stairs to his room. He was looking forward to it.
Inside his suite, Symon tossed his jacket on the couch, and set the wine bottles on the coffee table. He called the front desk, asked for six wine glasses to be sent up, and went hunting for the corkscrew. It was only as he trashed the carrier bag from the wine shop that his own thoughts came back and stomped on him.
Work on his prey’s manners?
Michael wasn’t Symon’s prey. Not like that, not with the emphasis on the possessive. He wasn’t Symon’s anything. They were not fucking dating.
No? You called him. You asked him over.
Because I need his taste buds. Symon strode into the bedroom, stripped off his sweater, and pulled on a black button down. Michael was going to help him decide which kind of ice wine to make. It wasn’t a date. It was research.
Uh-huh. Not a date. Got it. Want to tell me why you’re changing?
***
There was no mistaking the series of staccato raps that landed on Symon’s door for the apologetic taps the hotel staff used. Symon found himself smiling at the imperious hammering. Like Michael himself, his knock was impossible to ignore.
Symon glanced at his watch as he opened the door, 9:13. “What did you do, run?” he asked, stepping back as Michael entered.
“I was just up the street. Starbucks,” Michael said, tossing his parka on top of Symon’s jacket on the couch. He grazed his thumb along the seam of Symon’s lips, gently pushed his upper lip back.
Symon jerked his head away from Michael’s marauding fingers. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you were going to get your fangs out.”
“Why
, because you told me to?” Symon asked the question lightly, he even smiled, but it was a reprimand and Michael knew it.
He tilted his head down, looked at Symon from under his eyelashes. “Because you’re hungry?”
“I’m good. I don’t have to feed as often as I used to. Being ancient has its perks.” Symon wanted to smile at the disappointment that flashed across Michael’s face.
“But you could?”
Symon shrugged. “I could.”
“Please Symon,” Michael said, falling to his knees. “Feed on me.”
Symon’s spine locked, his fingernails digging into his palms. He felt his fangs slip free and knew his eyes were bleeding to red. Instinct struggled against control and control won, barely.
And, this is why you don’t get all warm and fuzzy with humans. Remember?
Remember? Symon would never forget. His childhood friend, his first lover, torn apart by Symon’s need. Seventeen years old and dead because Symon hadn’t known how to stop himself. Symon didn’t have a sire, had never had one. The vampire who had turned him had been long gone by the time Symon woke to the night for the first time. Alone and terrified, talons of pain tearing him apart from the inside out, he’d stumbled home and found Aleyn. No, Symon would never forget. That trauma had forged the walls he placed between himself and his prey. Walls that crumbled around this man.
“Dangerous words to say to a vampire,” Symon said, trailing a hand down the side of Michael’s neck.
Grey eyes laughed up at him. “What? Please, Symon?”
“Yeah, that too,” Symon said, surprised to find that it was true. He’d never had any interest in playing D/s games, wasn’t sure he had any interest now, but Michael on his knees like this, tugged at something inside Symon. No matter how submissive his pose, there was a taste of belligerence about Michael, a whisper of make me that had Symon clenching his fingers in Michael’s hair, and wrenching his head to the side. “I like this.”
“Yeah.” Michael’s eyes closed on a sigh. “Oh, God, me too.”
Symon leaned down, licked the taut line of Michael’s throat, and bit his earlobe.
“Oww,” Michael said, rubbing his ear. “What the fuck, Fido?”
“Does it hurt?” Symon asked, laughing at him.
“Why? You going to kiss it and make it better?”
You should keep this one. Look at him.
Symon was looking and he didn’t miss the fact that wounded earlobe or not, Michael was still on his knees. “Put your hands behind your back,” he said, watching as Michael locked his hands at the base of his spine. “Spread your legs.”
Symon sent his boot gliding up the inside of Michael’s thigh, pressed it against his package, and Michael’s eyes slid shut, his mouth opening on a moan. Oh, yeah, Symon thought, I could get into this. He repeated the trek along Michael’s thigh, liking the visual. Black leather against blue denim, the implied threat of his boot nudging Michael’s cock. He liked the flush spilling into Michael’s face even more, the hitched breaths, and small sighs. Symon lost count of the number of trips his boot made up the inside of Michael’s thigh, the number of times he grazed Michael’s package through the denim. He watched as Michael’s mouth became a tight line, his chest rising and falling as he fought to maintain control.
“Please, please, please,” Michael chanted.
Symon fed on the sound of Michael’s need. Rewarded his prey by letting Michael rut against his boot, but not for long, not anywhere near long enough. He slid his foot away and Michael grabbed at Symon’s ankle, held his boot captive against his groin.
It was a tossup as to which of them was the more shocked. Michael’s eyes going wide with horror, he dropped Symon’s boot, and laced his hands behind his back. “I’m sorry, Symon.”
Symon wasn’t sorry. He’d broken Michael’s control and he knew in the deep, dark, twisted tunnels of his being that given half a chance he’d do it again. “That was fucking brilliant,” he said, his hands on Michael's arms, urging him to his feet. “You totally lost it,” he added with a grin, beyond pleased with himself, and Michael. “Next time, I’ll tie your hands, see if I can make you cry.”
Next time?
“I don’t cry,” Michael said, the flat statement a line drawn in the sand, the tone in Michael’s voice daring Symon to step over it.
Keep this one. He’s yours.
“Never?” Symon plucked a wine bottle from the coffee table, stripped the wrapping off the cork. “You should try it. Tears would look good on you; you have the eyes for it.”
“There’s a compliment in there somewhere, right?” Michael asked, flopping down onto the couch. “Your social skills could use a little work.” He snatched a wine glass off the coffee table, held it up to Symon. “Pour.”
“This is a Cabernet Franc. Tell me what you think.”
Symon wasn’t expecting it, but Michael performed the whole ritual, swirling the wine in his glass to open the bouquet, sniffing the aroma before taking a sip, and spitting the sample into an empty wine glass. Obviously, the man wasn’t a wine tasting novice. “You’ve done this before.”
“Please, I grew up here in wine central. Plus, my parents own a winery.”
“Yeah? Which one?” Symon asked, wondering if he’d heard of it.
“Santos Wines.”
No way. No fucking way.
Chapter 8
“SANTOS WINES,” SYMON said. “You’re Santos Wines?”
“No,” Michael said, laughing. “I’m an art history major looking to get into grad school. My parents are Santos Wines.”
“Seriously? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Yeah, ’cause that’s what I usually do when I’m in bed with a guy, talk about my parents.”
Okay, yeah, Symon got that, but he couldn’t believe Michael hadn’t told him. Santos Wines was a little jewel of a winery. He would have already put in an offer, but for the inconvenient fact that it wasn’t for sale. “And last night, at the gala? A fucking homage to the wine industry and it didn’t occur to you to mention that your parents own a winery?”
“No, I was a little busy learning how to breathe with your tongue down my throat.”
Dimple Man was pissed. Symon knew he was being a dick, but he couldn’t seem to get passed the fact that Michael hadn’t told him. “I told you I was looking to buy a winery, you could have—”
“You didn’t say shit about a winery. You said you were looking for grapes.”
“What the fuck did you think I was going to do with them, stuff them in my pockets?”
“How would I know? I’m just some guy you picked up in a bar. We hooked up, exactly once. We spent a whole fifteen minutes together at the gala. I don’t owe you my life story.”
That truth shut Symon up faster than a gag because Michael was right. He didn’t owe Symon anything. So, why did it feel like he did? Why was his number still sitting in Symon's phone? Why was he even here in Symon's hotel room?
A door rattled; a door Symon kept locked. A door to the feelings he didn’t want and the things he had long ago decided he couldn’t have. “My realtor has been trying to set up a meeting with your father,” he said, ignoring the sound of that door buckling, hinges screeching, breaking open.
“Realtor? Why? What are you…? My father’s not selling the winery.”
“No, he isn’t. Not yet.”
Michael lunged off the couch. “You’re not going anywhere near my father.”
Dimple Man gave good glare. Six feet, two inches of incensed, muscled male getting up in your face was intimidating, or it would have been, if Symon didn’t know he could snap the man open like a plastic glow stick. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“What?” Michael’s eyebrows crashed into each other and the DefCon level five tension in his jaw dropped to level three. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t want me meeting your father because you haven’t told him you’re gay.”
It hadn’t even occurred to S
ymon that Michael wasn’t out to his family. He wouldn’t have allowed that kiss at the gala if he had known, not with the wine community being as incestuous as it was. What one knew, they all knew. Heard it Through the Grapevine wasn’t just a Marvin Gaye song. “You might want to tell him before someone else does,” Symon suggested. “That lip lock of ours at the gala wasn’t exactly private.”
“That’s what you think this is about, not wanting my father to know I’m gay?” Michael asked, his eyes manga-character wide. “This isn’t about me, Fido. This is about you and your head games. You are not pulling that vampire shit on my dad.”
Even for a dog, Fido was a crap name, but some part of Symon was starting to like it. Not the nick name itself, but the fact that Michael had given him one. Still, Dimple Man would have to pick something else. Symon wasn’t going to—tires screeched, left skid marks in his brain, as Symon hit the brakes on that train of thought. He was here to develop an ice wine. That’s it, that’s all. No nick names necessary.
“No, I can’t,” Symon said, in answer to Michael’s accusation. “Influence doesn’t work that way, it’s a temporary override. The minute it wears off, your father would be calling his lawyer.”
“But if you could, you would?”
Good question. One Symon had to think about. It’s not that he didn’t have a moral code, he did. His brand of ethics, however, was a personal amalgamation cobbled together over the centuries and it didn’t necessarily extend to humans.
“Probably. Maybe not your father because I know you, but anyone else? Yeah.”
Michael smiled. A little sliver of a thing, it didn’t even nudge his dimple. “So, you’re a borderline sociopath with crappy social skills. Good thing you’re cute.”
“Cute? This,” Symon swirled a hand in front of his face, “isn’t cute. This is the image that launched a thousand cum shots. Obviously more than a thousand, but I don’t want to brag.”
“Yeah, you’re all that and a lollipop.”
“Fuck you,” Symon said, the words were smothered in a laugh.
“About that,” Michael said. Cue the dimple. “I was hoping the wine tasting thing was a pretext.”
