Bulletproof (Healer) (11 page)

             
But Rose isn’t here. I make do with the laptop as company and I alternate between reading through the newest progresses in the American vampire scene and searching through photographs of quad bikes I’d like to own someday to keep my occupied. According to my favourite website, FANGS U.S.A, a new law has been set in place to forbid vampires from turning humans into creatures of the night like themselves even if the human begs and pleads. No more vampires have to be created unless the government approves. I read on. Humans can apply for vampire citizen status but the process of filling in paperwork and preparing for interviews and evaluations is lengthy in order to put most vampire enthusiasts off making the move. I wonder what spurred this on. Were they losing too many warm blooded humans in America? Not enough people wandering in the daylight? The process of becoming a vampire is something I know nothing about. It is not well publicised on the Internet and I guess this is censoring on the American government’s behalf. They don’t want everybody to know how it’s done. Oh well, more blood for the remaining vampires.

                           
EIGHT

               It’s seven o’clock when Gabe wakes up. It is a slow, painful scene to watch play out in front of me. He moves like his bones and joints have seized up, like he needs oil to lubricate them so he can move like a normal human being again. His face contorts. He must be in great pain and it makes me thankful I have never experienced a hangover. “Good morning,” I say from the other side of my laptop.

             
All morning I’ve been fighting the urge to search Maurice Baudin so I’m glad Gabe is awake now. I’m afraid I’ll discover something unpleasant. 

             
“Morning,” Gabe says. “Can you get me a glass of water please, Cassie?”

             
I nip to the bathroom and fill a tumbler with water from the tap and place it in Gabe’s clammy hands. I want to touch him, stroke his forehead and tell him he’ll be okay but he knows nothing about how I helped him last night. He was too drunk.

             
The film is being peeled away from Gabe’s eyes and he examines his surroundings. “Did we sleep together? I mean did I sleep here with you” he asks. He grimaces at his own question or at the mere thought of sharing a bed with me. Am I that repulsive to him? Well, he was no picnic last night.

             
“Yes,” I reply trying to sound nonchalant but even I had been wary of my decision. He had slept on top of the covers and I underneath. There was nothing intimate about it. “Yes,” I repeat and you shouted for a girl named Claire all night I want to add. Who is she?

             
“Oh,” is all he says. It is satisfying to watch him drink that water. Watching it gush down his throat, taking big gulps, hydrating. It makes me wish I were that thirsty just so I could enjoy water that much. He wipes the excess water spillage from his lips, “I’m sorry, Cassie.”

             
“Don’t apologise,” I say but I want to take my words back. He should apologise for leaving me alone in a strange hotel when I needed company, reassurance and that was what he was paid to do. He has been employed to make me feel at ease. He has failed. 

             
Gabe must recognise the anger in my face and tries to muster up as much remorse that his smug face is capable of, “Cassie, I am sorry. That wasn’t fair on you. I don’t remember much but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. You have to understand though, it’s like you said, everyone has something.”

             
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. I meant everybody has a spark that makes them special. Something that sets them a part from everybody else. A darkness, a lightness, a shadow cast upon them that means nobody can truly relate to anybody else. Alcohol abuse is self-inflicted. Gabe chose this darkness. I didn’t pick my medical condition like choosing a brand off the shelf because if I could I definitely wouldn’t choose to be Miracle Girl.

             
“Everyone has something that helps them cope, Cassie,” he says. “For Rose, it’s lust. Clothes, money, sex - Rose needs them. She’s lonely now, her parents are dead and her brother is in care. For you, it’s your weird, seriously weird, need for adrenaline. Your running, reading extreme sports magazine and not to mention your freaky obsession with  vampires…” his mouth is down turned, “You use it because you’re lonely too but not like Rose. No, you have plenty of people who love you but nobody you can relate to. Nobody gets you. You’re bullet proof and you don’t want to be...”

             
Bullet proof. Nobody ever put it like that but I suppose he is right. I’m titanium but I long to be aluminium foil. I didn’t think Gabe could be so profound but his words are flying in front of my face, illuminating the room and they are not easy to ignore. He is right. I am surrounded by people who love me yet none of them understand. Why is there a pinching sensation  telling me that there is someone who understands and they aren’t too far away? “And what about you?” I say with more sneer than I intended, “You use alcohol to cope? Are you lonely too? What are you hiding from?”

             
Gabe shakes his head. I wonder if he is going to tell me about Claire, the ambiguous name he shouted out in his sleep but he just grunts, “Let’s get you breakfast.”

             
I pull my pyjamas back on and Gabe stays in his sweaty clothes which smell of champagne. I’m glad he wasn’t sick. We’ve not even left the room and I can feel the disapproving stares of the other guests in the hotel.

             
The hotel restaurant is colossal. There is buffet of food stretching for what seems like miles. Gabe’s walking is stiff and slow from the hangover but he doesn’t complain. I’m starving now. It’s been hours since I last ate those delicious strawberries in the limo which now made me shiver as they remind me of my horrible dream. I consider telling Gabe about my nightmare. After what he said this morning, I can’t help but feel like he could be a kindred spirit with whom I could share my thoughts with but I keep my mouth zipped and we walk along the stretch of food served up in ornate gold dishes along a solid marble bar. 

             
Bright yellow eggs, crispy sausages, frazzled pink bacon. We continue to walk in awe filling our plates with the food. The smells filling my nostrils are setting off an violent fireworks display in my stomach. There is a chef cooking pancakes. He flips them in the air and yells loudly. Too loud for so early in the morning. Gabe winces every time the portly French man shouts, “Pancakes!” 

             
At the table, my mouth is watering. I soak my pancakes in syrup, slather my toast in marmalade. One slice with orange, another with raspberry. I avoid the strawberry jam as it makes me think of a gruesome picture. I cram as much of the food into my mouth as possible. Everything tastes so good. 

             
“Slow down there,” Gabe laughs. His smile is beautiful. He rests his head on his hand like it is still too heavy for his neck to carry. I imagine his skull filled with alcohol, a black dense liquid which floods every cavity and makes his head feel heavy. The skin beneath his eyes is tainted with a black, purple colour. I try not to keep my gaze on his face for any length of time though. “There will be plenty of food at Maurice’s house.”

             
Gabe’s phone rings and he excuses himself to answer the phone call. While he is gone I have inhaled another three slices of toast covered in fruit jams, a blueberry muffin and half a grilled sausage. When he returns, his contagious smile has dissipated and his sullen frown is back.

             
“Bad news,” he says, “Rose won’t be meeting us after all.”

             
My heart sinks. Knowing I was going to see Rose soon was my lifeboat. A glimpse of hope that was keeping me from just sinking further down, preventing fear from swallowing me up. “Why?” I hope nothing bad has happened to her when travelling. Hope the authorities hunting for vampires hadn’t caught her.

             
“Maurice called her. Says he needs her to help set up for your welcome party in Toulouse,” he seems resentful but I am pleased because that means I will get to see Rose tonight. The fading light of my lifeboat was now coming back into view. The fear began to ebb away from me. 

             
Gabe thrusts a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Chewing and speaking at the same time, “Party planner extraordinaire, she says. What about me? I could use an extra pair of hands.”

             
“I’m hardly difficult…” I say. Annoyed. If anything, I’ve been looking after him. If anything, I could use an extra set of hands to keep him in control.

             
“I know but I’m not a babysitter. I’m not a girl either, I don’t know how to keep you entertained…” now he’s annoyed me. I don’t reply. We silently eat our breakfast, both filling our heads with bitter thoughts of the person sitting across from us, both wishing Rose was here. This was going to be a long day.

              Back in the room, Gabe is on the phone to somebody getting instructions about our day. Mostly he just nods and says “yes” in a growling voice. There’s nothing interesting to hear so I run myself a hot bath, filling it with sensual oils provided by the hotel, so the steam rising from the gold tub makes me relax. 

             
The hot water does a good job of untying the knots in my muscles. My anxieties are evaporating along with the steam. Once I am completely tranquil and I feel clean, I step out of the bath and towel myself dry. The towels are pure cotton pleasure. 

             
I feel self-conscious stepping out of the bathroom in just a towel and want to ask Gabe to leave. He stares at me, still on the phone, wide-eyed, gaping mouth, looking at my shiny wet legs and arms. My hair is dripping down my back and there is a single droplet of water falling from the tip of my nose. My skin goes bright red. I feel it’s unfair that I can’t break a bone but I still have to endure the humiliation of blushing. 

             
He hangs up from the phone call and smirks, “Nice legs, Bullet.”

             
“Bullet?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to remain cool but my skin is prickling with heat. 

             
“Yeah like bullet proof,” he says, mockingly. 

             
“Ok,” I say firmly, pick up my clothes and return to the bathroom to change in private. With the door shut behind me, I let out a jagged breath that I’d been holding on to with Gabe watching. Why does he have this effect on me? He’s just a boy. A stupid, drunk with a dislike for people, humans and vampires. I struggled to think of any redeeming qualities in Gabe but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t shake how good it felt when I watched him gulp at the sight of my near naked body. His chocolate eyes. His rose lips. I sigh again.

             
I pull on a pair of Rose approved denim jeans which squeeze my thighs so they look narrower but hug my butt flatteringly. I choose a light checked shirt. I feel more like me. Although an expensively dressed version, it was a huge step from the blouse and leather skirt Rose had be in yesterday. 

             
Once I’m dressed, Gabe takes a bath. Cleaning off the musk of alcohol and sweat. He returns, wearing loose khaki trousers and a long sleeve red top. I haven’t see him in so much colour before. He was always wearing black. He suits some vibrancy, I think, admiring his shapely arms beneath the tight t-shirt he is wearing. 

             
Gabe explains we have a few hours to see whatever I want to see in Paris. The obvious monuments like the Eiffel Tower and the Sacre Coeur. Then we would get a flight into Toulouse. Gale and I are still at odds over his digging comment at the breakfast table but after my hot bath and being back in normal clothes, some of the tension has lessened slightly. It has now been replaced with the unspoken friction created by his gawking at me in my towel. We were both aware about how electrifying that moment was. 

             
We travel by metro. Paris by day is so much lovelier than the quick, dark experience I had last night in the limo. I had been so disorientated I couldn’t drink in the sculpted sandstone buildings, the shop windows dressed enticingly. 

             
The chocolate shops are my favourite. I press my nose against the thick glass and stare, amazed, at the many forms chocolate can take. Cake, bar, truffles, swirls, curves, thick, thin, dark, light. “I have some money from Rose,” Gabe shrugs. “I don’t get paid like she does but Maurice would want you to have some.”