Fangs for the Memories (6 page)

“What did you do?”

Sheepishly, he admitted, “I was going to have all of his utilities shut off and then have a hundred deep-dish garlic and anchovy pizzas delivered to his house in twos for the next six months.”

“Aw . . . that's adorable.”

“Oh, hush, so you've out-supervillained me one time. I was distracted by providing your vital medical care.”

I burst out laughing.

“Sometimes you make it very difficult to be your white knight,” he grumbled.

“You can try again sometime,” I told him.

“Count on it.” Dick chuckled and wrapped an arm around me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead against the line of his jaw. He always had the appearance of having a five o'clock shadow, but his skin was surprisingly smooth and soft. I took a deep breath, inhaling his spicy bergamot scent. The familiar smell enveloped me and sent a shudder down my spine. I gasped but covered the noise by sucking air through my teeth as if I had been shivering. I pulled the blanket up to my chin.

“Cold?”

I nodded.

“That happens sometimes with the saline,” he said, as he gently pushed me back against the arm of the sofa and climbed under the blanket with me. “Here. Shared body heat.”

“You don't have any body heat. You're room temperature.”

“Just snuggle up, woman.”

I snorted, carefully arranging us so my back was tucked against his chest. His arms wrapped around my front and enveloped me in an embrace that was oddly warm. He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, on the opposite side of my Darla-related wounds.

I had no doubt I was safe. It'd been a long time since I'd been able to trust someone to get this close to me.

After Mathias, I didn't trust my perceptions of people. I didn't trust that I could be loved, that I was worth loving. As much as I valued my clients, professional decorum and survival instincts kept me a little bit on edge. And now I felt . . . safe and cherished . . . and completely at peace, despite the fact that my head was still pounding and I was snuggled up to a T-shirt that was extolling the virtue of sex in the bluegrass state.

“This is nice,” he rumbled, burying his face in my hair.

I closed my eyes and relaxed against him. “Mmmhmm.”

“See, I'm not such a bad guy.”

I snickered. “Well, you're not a good guy.”

“Is this because I have my hand on your boob?” he asked.

I yawned widely, noting that he did not, in fact, move his hand from my left breast. “That, too.”

I slept so deeply that
I don't think I moved for twelve hours. At one point, I felt Dick get up from the couch, fiddle with my IVs, and pull the blanket up to my chin. Somewhere inside my barely conscious brain, it bothered me that he was leaving me, running off like I was some one-and-done. But at a weirder subconscious level, it was sort of a relief to have my worst suspicions (about Dick and the rest of the male population, dead and undead) confirmed.

I drifted back to sleep, relieved that I hadn't wasted years on bitterness and . . . yet more bitterness.

I fully woke up hours later, and the room was totally dark. Once again, I had a room-temperature body wrapped around my back, and his hands were respectfully tucked around my arms. Dick's chin was cradled in the crook of my neck. The IV lines had been removed, so I could roll over freely. My hands ached from the punctures, and all of the extra fluids made me feel sort of sloshy, but I had to admit I felt better. The throbbing in my head was gone and my mouth had something resembling moisture in it, which was nice.

As I cuddled against Dick's chest, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

He looked so sweet when he was asleep. His face was relaxed and untroubled. The puckish bend to his mouth was missing, and he looked—I knew I was going to feel strange about thinking this later—innocent.

Dick Cheney saved me. He'd come back. He didn't want me to wake up alone. He wanted to take care of me. I'd never been with someone who wanted to take care of me instead of the other way around. I leaned closer, letting my nose brush against his. He didn't stir. Licking my lips lightly, I pressed forward and brushed my mouth against his.

He inhaled sharply and jerked awake. His eyes flew open wide, and I leaned back, a cold flash of fear in my belly warning me that I might have gone too far. One does not poke a sleeping predator. And making out with him without permission? Probably not a good idea, either. But in the darkness, I could see Dick's lips curve upward. He lowered his forehead against mine, and after a long moment, he kissed me back. His lips were cool and smooth and molded against mine. I melted into him as I felt his hands sweep over my back and pull me even closer.

I wound my leg around his, bringing his hips closer to mine. I moaned into his mouth as his hands made their way from my back to caressing my bare arms. I twisted my fingers into his T-shirt. And, glancing down at the “Gettin' Lucky in Kentucky” logo, I tugged at it until he reached for the hem and pulled it over his head.

Finally, I got to see what Dick Cheney was hiding under those smartass T-shirts.

Wow.

Why did he wear shirts at all? It was practically a crime against humanity, or at least against the female half of the population. Dick wasn't beefy and overbuilt, but he had a lovely swimmer's physique—a long, muscled torso, impressive pecs, and rangy, sinewed arms. And those arms were wrapped around me. It was heavenly.

Before I could make some awkward remark, he pressed his mouth against mine, effectively (and mercifully) shutting me up. I could feel his fangs growing against my mouth. I flicked my tongue, letting it flutter against the sensitive enamel of his canines. Dick growled, clutching my face between his hands as he sucked on my bottom lip and nipped at it. I hissed at the sharp, but not entirely unpleasant, sensation.

Dick retreated, rolling onto his back so I was straddling his hips. His hand slid up the back of my neck, tangling in my hair before cradling my cheek. He was panting, eyes closed, and seemed to be counting to himself. I watched as his fangs withdrew back into line with his blunt teeth.

He was getting himself back under control. For me. I scrambled up the length of his body to basically attack his mouth. A strange response to a man's demonstrated resistance to violence, but good God, Dick Cheney restraining himself for my sake was one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen.

This self-imposed “cooling off” did not seem to affect the rather respectable bulge growing in his jeans. I rolled my hips, enjoying the little whimpering sounds he made in his throat as the growing warmth between my thighs made contact with that impressive erection. I grinned against his mouth, pleased and just a little smug.

He spread his large hand with its long, graceful fingers over my breast, pushing the lace camisole aside. He thumbed my nipple, while his other hand caressed the length of my spine. Those same long fingers pressed against my ass, pinning me against him as he bucked his hips. He nosed along my jaw, pressing cool, wet kisses that left me shivering in his wake. His forehead bumped against the bandage on my neck. I hissed against the throb of pain and he drew back.

“Sorry,” he breathed.

“It's OK,” I told him.

Dick pushed my hair back from my face and cupped my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

Sighing, I sat up, and he followed, grabbing his shirt and dropping it back over his head, effectively killing whatever this was. I couldn't help but pout a little. Good-bye, admirable abdominals.

“So . . . that happened,” he said.

“Yes, it did.”

“But I won't blame you if you want to blame this on me and my vampiric nature taking advantage of you in your weak state.”

I shook my head. “I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you. And not trusting you has nothing to do with your being a vampire. I didn't trust you because you're so damned charming. I don't trust charming. I don't trust myself to choose correctly.”

“I trust you.”

“That's because I just made out with you.”

“That's probably true. But just so you know, I don't do that with just anyone.”

“That's not what I've been told. You have a reputation, Cheney.”

“Slander, honey, and falsehoods. I kissed you because you're special.”

“Because of my blood type.”

“Because of you. Because you're funny and smart and a little scary when you need to be. And because you're becoming sassier every day, and I love it. It's like watching someone put temporary tattoos on the
Mona Lisa
. It shouldn't be awesome, but somehow it is.”'

“It has nothing to do with you wanting to take a bite out of me?”

“If all I wanted to do was to take a bite out of you, I would've done that when you were helpless and unconscious. Of course, if you want to discuss some mutually agreed-upon nibbles, I wouldn't say no. But that's not why I want to be with you. I want to be with you because of you.”

My lips twitched. “Thank you.”

“So are you going to go out in public with me or just use me for my snuggling skills?”

I sighed. “It'd be wrong, wouldn't it? Just to use you for your body?”

Dick stared off into space for a moment, eyes slightly glazed over.

“Dick?”

“Sorry, I need a minute to collect myself,” he said, squirming uncomfortably in his jeans. “OK, I'm collected. I'd be fine with you just using me for my body. It's mutually beneficial.”

“I knew you would be,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“So you'll go to the wedding rehearsal with me?”

“Yes,” I told him. “If for no other reason than I think Jane's got some sort of disaster brewing with Zeb and Zeb's mom and the werewolf aunties. You know, she's a generally nice person. Why do so many people get so mad at her?”

Dick shrugged. “It's part of her charm. It's sorta like goin' to a drag race just because you want to see a crash.”

I pursed my lips. “You're a horrible human being.”

“Not a human,” he said, shaking his head. “Oh, but if we're going to go on a date, you can't do that with your mouth. It makes me want to do this.”

And with that, Dick gave me another long, lingering kiss.

6

You will find love again. You just have to be open to what life or undeath throws at you.

—Surviving the Undead Breakup: A Human's Guide to Healing

I
sat in Specialty Books at a heavy leaded-glass and maple desk that had been cleared of the many layers of dusty books in the last week, cataloguing the shop's ceremonial athames. Mr. Wainwright had stocked an alarming number of knives for a bookshop.

The former shopkeeper's funeral service had been quiet and unorthodox. He'd asked to be cremated and sprinkled into the Ohio River, so he could spread out into the Gulf of Mexico and circulate all over the world. Even odder, Mr. Wainwright was attending his own funeral as a spirit. I couldn't see him or hear him, but Jane assured us he was there and was enjoying the proceedings immensely. He'd agreed to stay in town for the foreseeable future to build that relationship that Dick craved so badly. Also, he'd taken a liking to Jane's deceased Aunt Jettie, who was haunting Jane's house.

There were stranger romances in Half-Moon Hollow, but I couldn't come up with an example off the top of my head.

The reading of Mr. Wainwright's will had been full of surprises. I'd received a token from the old sweetheart: a silver claddagh ring that had belonged to his lost love. I'd only attended the reading to support Jane; I'd never dreamed that he would leave me a remembrance. Dick was none too pleased that said remembrance would burn and blister him upon contact, but I liked the idea of keeping him on his toes.

We were keeping the new developments between the two of us . . . between the two of us. Jane would find out that we were edging toward coupledom soon enough. She had plenty on her mind, what with her grandmother being engaged to a ghoul and Mr. Wainwright leaving her the shop. The bequest had knocked her flat on her rear. She'd expected a rare book or two, but her former boss had changed his will and left her the whole shop.

Jane was overwhelmed and grateful and had been agonizing over what to do with the place for days. The shop had just barely broken even the last few years, and Jane had no significant retail experience. But she also knew how difficult it was for vampires to find employment in the Hollow, particularly vampires with such book-specific skills. Jane also anticipated some resistance from Emery, the nephew languishing in South America under the impression that he was Mr. Wainwright's sole heir. But ultimately, after a very stern heart-to-heart with him, she'd decided to keep the place open.

I was happy for Jane, who was currently upstairs in Mr. Wainwright's former apartment getting another pep talk from her ghostly mentor. With most of the dust and debris cleared, I could see the potential in the place. There weren't any independent bookshops in the Hollow, so with the right product and personal touches (and by somehow convincing the customers that there was no adult bookshop next door), Jane could do very well.

Meanwhile, I had my own employment issues to work out. At twilight, as I was leaving for the shop, I'd opened my front door to find Sophie standing on my stoop wearing jeans and a sweater. I'm not sure if it was the casual wear or the appearance of someone so closely associated with my recent violent trauma, but I recoiled at the sight of her. And wished desperately that Dick hadn't decided to stay away for a few days to “give me some space.” Damn his considerate, but absent, ass.

“Sophie!” I cried, stumbling back into my apartment. “What are you doing here?”

All of Sophie's slick Euro-cool charm had disappeared as she glared across the threshold at me. What the hell? She couldn't be pissed at me over the Darla incident. I hadn't told a soul besides Dick. And I was hale and healthy thanks to my undead nurse, so it's not like there'd be repercussions for her. So why was she giving me the face-melting death glare?

From behind Sophie, a tall, slender brunette teenager stepped out of the darkness. She was wearing velvet hot pants, a peasant blouse, and a floppy straw hat. Because head Council official Ophelia Lambert believed that a jailbait-worthy outfit wasn't an outfit unless it had a theme. I'd never actually seen Ophelia commit an act of violence. The rumor about her use of an enemy's femur to club said enemy and then stake him out for sunrise was enough to secure her reputation among undead and living alike. She only had to look at a vampire sideways and they hopped to do her bidding.

And considering the additional rumors about Ophelia's past entanglements with Dick, I had to wonder whether I was about to suffer some vampire version of a spurned ex-girlfriend beatdown. That still didn't explain Sophie's jeans, though . . .

“Sophie, I believe you have something to say to Ms. Byrne?” Ophelia prompted her, while leaning against my porch railing.

Sophie sighed. “It seems I was hasty in dropping you off at your home the other night. I didn't follow protocols to secure your health and well-being before leaving you. And for that, I owe you an apology.”

This speech was delivered with all of the energy of Matthew McConaughey on Quaaludes.

“And?” Ophelia said, nudging her with an elbow to the ribs.

“And please accept this extremely exorbitant check as a symbol of my sincere regret,” Sophie deadpanned as she held out a creamy linen envelope.

I reached out tentatively to take it, fully expecting her to grab me in some sort of wrist hold and rip my throat out.

Sophie gave me one last glare before asking Ophelia, “Am I done now?”

Ophelia gave her a frosty smile. “Quite. I'll see you at the next meeting.”

Sophie strode off the porch without so much as a backward glance. I turned toward Ophelia. “What just happened?”

“I'm sorry that Sophie dropped the ball so dramatically. She knows better,” Ophelia told me. “But she's always been a bit oblivious to human needs. I doubt she realized you were in danger of being drained until you were nearly dead. And she figured as long as you were walking around, you'd be fine. Also, she had a dinner party she was trying to get to and didn't want to be held up.”

“Yes, how inconsiderate of me, taking up so much of her evening,” I muttered.

“She's been removed as Darla's foster sire, if that makes you feel any better.”

“That does, actually.”

“Dick arrived at the Council headquarters after your disastrous appointment, angrier than I'd ever seen him. When my secretary tried to stop him from marching into my office, he tossed her desk into a wall and walked right in. I'd never seen him show anything but oozing charm toward a female, so I had to admit I was intrigued. After explaining the state he'd found you in and how Sophie was responsible, he informed me that I needed to ‘put my boot up Sophie's ass' or he was going to do it for me.”

“Hence the begrudging apology and the ‘exorbitant' check?”

“And she's on probationary status as a Council officer for the next three years. Before you mock the check, you might want to count the number of zeros,” she said, smirking at me.

Brows quirked, I opened the envelope, scanned the check, and pronounced several elaborate curse words I'd only heard Jane say when she'd gotten her hand caught in one of Mr. Wainwright's bite-y relics.

“There you go,” Ophelia drawled.

Sophie had given me enough money to take a very nice vacation . . . for the next several years. It wasn't exactly retirement money, but I certainly wouldn't have to worry about the Council keeping me on retainer. My savings and cozy apartment were safe as long as I kept some reasonable income stream.

“And Mr. Cheney says that you'd like to limit the number of surrogate appointments you keep with the Council's constituents. Actually, I believe he said, ‘She's never going to risk her neck for one of your frickin' appointments again,' but I thought you'd like to clarify for me. We would hate to lose you as a surrogate.”

“Isn't it sort of counterintuitive to try to get me to stay in your employ right after handing me a big fat check that eliminates my need to keep a second job?”

“Well, the big fat check was the polite thing to do,” Ophelia protested primly. “Also, it hit Sophie where she lived, so it was a fitting punishment. I don't want to hold financial security over your head, Andrea, though I will admit that would be the quickest and simplest solution. I want to provide the best for the vampires living in my region, and you're the best. And that requires your willing and enthusiastic participation in the process.”

“Thank you, that's very—”

Ophelia continued, “Because I'm bound by a host of very annoying human laws about your safety and well-being.”

“It was so close to being something nice,” I told her. Ophelia shrugged, and I continued, “I would like to limit my appointments . . . to nearly nothing. To be honest, I'm not sure if I want to continue at all, but if I do, I'd like to help out in the occasional special case. And only under Dick's direct supervision or yours.”

Ophelia's dark brows drew together. “You have become close to Dick, haven't you?”

I wasn't going to comment on that. For all I knew, the whole conversation was a trap. Instead, I just continued on my rant. “And I will also stop seeing my private clients, though I'd appreciate it if you kept that to yourself—both for professional discretion and because it's going to take me a while to work up the nerve to tell Jane.”

“She's going to be completely obnoxious about it, isn't she?”

“Yes, she is,” I said. “I appreciate all of the kindness the vampire community has shown me over the years, but the risk has just become too much for me.”

“I can't say that I blame you, or that I'm not disappointed. I'll do my best to work with you to find clients and keep you safe. Call my office and we'll set up a meeting to discuss parameters,” she said.

“That is very generous of you,” I told her, and she preened a bit. “I have one more question.”

“Yes?”

“Why was Sophie wearing jeans?”

Ophelia burst out laughing, which was somehow also terrifying. “Before he stormed into the Council office, Dick snuck into Sophie's house, stole all of her pantsuits, and ran them through an industrial wood-chipper.”

Well, that explained where Dick went while I was sleeping. He'd had a very busy evening trying to out-supervillain me.

Now, sitting at the Specialty Books register counting pointy objects, I didn't know what to make of Ophelia's offer. I knew it was a considerable concession for her to be that flexible. And I appreciated the “blood money” the Council had forced Sophie to hand over. But honestly, I didn't know if I could continue working as a blood surrogate at all after the Darla experience. I'd had close calls on appointments before but nothing like this.

The one thing I had no doubt about was the fact that I'd spent a very enjoyable evening in the arms of Dick Cheney. Dick had shown me a whole new side of himself, taking care of me, showing such concern and consideration. Hell, he'd mentally counted down from ten to keep his fangs under control. I wouldn't tell him right away, but at the moment, I trusted Dick more than ninety-nine percent of the vampires I knew. (Jane and, to a lesser extent, Gabriel excepted.)

I scrubbed a hand over my face, carefully applied makeup be damned. I needed a coffee, desperately. Between the occupational stress, the occasional Darla-fueled nightmare, and reliving the delicious kisses courtesy of Dick Cheney, I hadn't had a decent night's sleep all week. But I'd seen the coffee pot in the recently unearthed break room. I wouldn't drink anything made in that pot even if I was immortal.

I craved a latte but figured it'd be a poor show of support for Jane to abandon her to her doubts while I ran to Starbucks.

“Andrea, you OK?”

At the sound of Jane's concerned tone, I steeled my mind against any potentially alarming thoughts. I mentally checked off the list of things I shouldn't think of lest Jane pluck it from my mind—making out with Dick, vocational doubts, nearly becoming vampire kibble. And I closed a mental shield around my brain to keep her out. It was nothing personal. She just didn't need to know about any of that stuff until I was ready to share it with her.

I smiled at Jane as she approached the cash register. “You look tired,” she said.

Apparently, I hadn't applied the under-eye concealer quite as effectively as I'd hoped. “I'm fine,” I told her. “I've just been working a lot lately. Two jobs, you know, lots of commitments.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Jane said.

I tried to keep my face neutral, because it was possible—though unlikely—that Jane didn't know about that mental checklist of no-no subjects. I wondered which topic I'd have to have an awkward, defensive conversation about: Dick, biting, or money. And then I stopped wondering, because I didn't want Jane to overhear me.

“What would you think about working here at the store with me?”