Hellbent (25 page)

I’ll admit, by the time we were cabbing our way to the hotel, I was getting antsy. The sky was pinking, just a rosy fraction, over in the east—and that’s closer than I like to call it. I drew a pair of sunglasses out of my go-bag (which of course, I had brought with me as my second piece of “personal item” carry-on—bereft of its usual knives and weaponry) and pulled them on. It took the edge off the stinging my eyes began to feel as we waited in traffic, and the pinking spread like a puddle.

“Ow,” Adrian said quietly—a message to me, not a declaration of any distress.

It was then that I realized I’d been squeezing his leg. Hard. I’d left half-moon impressions of my fingernails along his almost-inner thigh, so really, I think he ought to receive some award for patience and trust. He should’ve said something sooner, but I guess my agitation was apparent enough that he hadn’t bothered.

By the time we were checked in and racing for the elevator, I was relieved to the point of feeling ill. I jammed my fingers against the buttons to close the doors, and when they finally did shut, I felt my first relief in hours.

“Told you we’d make it,” he said, leaning into the mirrored corner as we rose the fifteen floors to the honeymoon suite. Hey, it was all they had on such short notice.

“You were right. Everything’s fine. We’ll be sealed in a room momentarily.”

“Stop trying to convince yourself, and quit worrying. See?” He pointed at the round, lit numbers. “We’re here. Unclench, would you?”

“I’m unclenching, I’m unclenching.” And privately I thought to myself that I wouldn’t be doing this in the future if it were at all
possible. Air travel used to be a much more in-and-out event, something that didn’t require two hours of lead time on either end. Henceforth, anything farther away than two or three hours by air would have to be broken up into multiple trips.

Adrian wheeled his suitcase out of the elevator ahead of me and looked back to say, “You’re thinking about taking shorter flights next time, aren’t you?”

“Shut up. You’re not my fucking ghoul.”

I pushed him aside and used my card to let us inside a blissfully dark and accommodatingly spacious hotel room with blessedly thick curtains and an air conditioner that could blow the red off an apple. I turned it down immediately and dropped my shit on the side of the bed farthest from the window.

“I don’t even get a chance to call dibs?”

“Do you burst into flames when sunlight hits you? No? Then you get the side of the bed closer to the curtains.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

One thing
I
hadn’t thought about: sharing a bed with Adrian. It could get weird, or it could not get weird. This was a business trip after all, and it didn’t need to go any further than that. Or that was what I told myself as he started peeling off his clothes and yanking the curtains shut.

I was tired, and cranky, and relieved to be indoors, which put the kibosh on any sweet-talking anyway. The sun came up all the way before long, and I settled in for the day, burritoing myself into a light-proof bundle facing the wall. I could feel the morning even though I couldn’t see it.

Adrian and I had done a good job of plugging the cracks before full blaze manifested, but I was still grateful for the space between the bed and the wall—where I could roll off to the floor and hide if I had to, in case that jet-powered air conditioner moved the curtains while I was sleeping.

I used to be afraid of killing people in my sleep, but that only ever happened once. My body will sometimes take measures into its own hands (or my own hands, whatever) if I’m out cold during the day and someone pokes at me with a stick … or, um, anything else, which put a damper on one or two of my relationships, early in my vampire days. Eventually I learned my lesson and quit chasing pretty mortal boys. Or anybody else.

Come to think of it, this was the first time I was sharing sleeping space with a regular old day-walker in decades.

I was sure it would be fine. Adrian was smart, and he knew the general peril—though I made a point to remind him of it before I dozed off.

“Hey Adrian?”

“Hm?” he replied from his spot by the luggage, where he was unpacking some essential item or another.

“Do me a favor, huh? Remember to give me space while I’m sleeping.”

He frowned thoughtfully. “How much space? Should I just take the floor?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. But, I don’t know. Just don’t get snuggly. I don’t have a lot of personal control when the sun’s up. I’d hate to wake up and find you smeared against the wall or something.”

“No personal control. Got it.”

I grabbed one of the small, purely ornamental pillows and chucked it at his head. “Don’t make it sound dirty. It’s not dirty, it’s
dangerous.
”

“Lots of dirty things are dangerous. All the best ones, I hear.”

“Shut
up
. Just … don’t stick your finger in my nose, and I won’t break it off. Does that sound fair?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that ghoul thing, it skeeves me out.”

With a twist of his mouth he changed his voice to sound like the typical lisping Hollywood Igor. “Yes, mistress.”

“I will kill you.”

“Not if I run outside.”

“I’ll kill you
later
,” I vowed.

Then I rolled over and conked out.

Later, as I dozed in the typical near-catatonia that engulfs me during the day, I slipped in and out of consciousness a tiny bit—rising near the surface, like a diver not quite ready to call it a swim and climb back up to the dock. And while I lurked, or lingered, or bobbed up to the edge of awareness, I sensed something large, warm, and familiar nearby. He was stretched out beside me, his breathing deep and regular, and some tiny part of my mind recognized him.

At some point I dreamed (or maybe I didn’t) that I was curled up next to him. His body was warm and firm, even through the blanket burrito in which I’d encased myself, and the softness of his breath in my hair was almost comforting.

It might’ve been the blood he’d swallowed, or it might’ve been something less concrete and obvious. He was my friend, and he was beautiful, and he was strong enough that I surely wouldn’t take off his head by accident or surprise, particularly since he knew it was a possibility and could plan against it.

(Then why was his arm wrapped around my waist? I remembered the weight of it, the way it cinched me close to his body like a roller coaster’s safety bar.)

I’ll be the first to confess that the whole thing was utterly strange, but when the sun set and I got up and around, Adrian wasn’t there and I was alone in the king-sized bed. And inexplicably, I was disappointed.

While I was still getting myself awake and oriented to being
upright, he came back to the room toting more carryout for supper. Or breakfast? I didn’t know how long he’d been up.

This time, he didn’t bring any for me. I feigned disappointment, but he only chucked a french fry at me and told me to go get my own, since my head wasn’t broken anymore.

“You’re a lousy ghoul,” I accused.

“I’m a hungry date,” he corrected me. “Fancy suppers never have good food, and who knows? We might not get to eat. Creed might make a scene, and then where would I be? Starving, that’s where.”

“Starving isn’t a place,” I said down into the sink, because I was listening to him justify his failure to provide for me while I was washing my face. “And
I
won’t be eating anything at the supper anyway. All the more reason you should’ve brought me something.”

“I’ve seen you go for weeks without … eating.”

“I bet
you
could go for days,” I speculated as I toweled my cheeks off. “But you wouldn’t like it much.”

“Yeah, well, I won’t get arrested for picking up supper. You might.”

“But that’s not something that informs my spotty consumption. I’m lazy, that’s all.”

“And honest, which is something.”

“Hey, you brought a tux, right? Let me see it.”

He bobbed his head toward a clothing sleeve shaped like a tombstone, and left draped across the large seat that was under the window. “It’s over there.”

“Get it out. I want to look at it. Got to make sure we won’t clash.”

“You’re anal.”

“Very, yes.”

“What are
you
wearing?” he asked, and I realized I’d forgotten to play show-and-tell before we left.

“It’s hanging up in here.” I pointed at the closet. “If I’d had more time, I would’ve sent it out to be dry cleaned before heading out tonight—”

“I thought you didn’t like dry cleaners.”

“I don’t. The chemicals leave a funny taste in the back of my throat. But with vintage, sometimes it’s the only proper care alternative.” I dug it out and let him touch it, because that’s the kind of giving spirit I am.

He
oohed
and
ahhed
over it like an appreciative girlfriend, feeling the silk gently between two fingers. “It’s a shame you didn’t bring one in my size.”

“Back in the thirties, I’m pretty sure Chanel wasn’t designing for … people of your height,” I finished with mock care. He knows he’s a dude. I’m not insulting him by being aware of it.

“More’s the pity,” he said, and in those three words I heard his drag voice peek through the macho ex-SEAL persona, the barest smidge. “This is from the thirties?”

“Yeah. ’Thirty-one or ’32. I don’t remember, exactly. It’s been a long time.”

“But it was new when you bought it?”

“Uh-huh. It was a present to myself. Because sometimes, I deserve presents.”

“Damn,” he whistled. “What an opportunity.”

I went to my rolling case and started fishing around for the appropriate underthings. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, living so long, with so much money. Your closet must be loaded with vintage stuff like this. You can’t find a dress like this anymore, not for love or money,” he purred.

“Oh, that’s not entirely true. Collectors, vintage enthusiasts—they’re out there. But it’d cost you an arm and a leg, and that’s a
fact. Anyway,” I said, balling up my delicates and strolling back into the bathroom for the illusion of privacy. I didn’t shut the door all the way, so we could still talk.

“Anyway what?”

“It’s not like I knew it’d be such a prize item when I first picked it up. Obviously it’s a nice dress, and I spent a pretty penny on it. But you never know what’ll turn out to be a valuable antique or a hot collector’s item. Over more than your average life span, I’ve been picking up things I liked, just because I liked them. Some of it turns out to be worthless in twenty years, and some of it quadruples in value.”

I could see him in the bathroom mirror, through the crack in the door. Technically this meant that if he gazed at the correct angle, he could see me, too—but he was absorbed in the clothing worship that somewhat characterized his alter ego.

“It’s a good thing you have such good taste, then.”

“Thanks, darling.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic,” he fussed.

I poked my head around the door as I wrestled myself into a girdle. Okay, so it was Spanx, but the effect is better than the old-school wonder-garments, and even the skinniest supermodel would need a little smoothing underneath the classic Chanel lines. “I’m not being sarcastic,” I said as I shimmied into the stretchy, difficult underpants. “I’m happy to be on the receiving end of a professional lady’s style admiration.”

With a laugh, he set down the corner of fabric with which he’d been toying. “All right, I believe you. And this
is
lovely. One of these days, when we get back—”

He stopped because I bonked my head against the door. It was an accident, brought on by my overconfidence regarding one final hop into the other leg of the damn Spanx.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” I said, then strolled into the sleeping area looking like a fashionably swathed mummy. “Sorry,
do
go on.”

“You look ridiculous.”

“Give me my dress.”

Reverently he picked it up and passed it over to me, and before long I was satisfactorily sheathed for a fancy event. My hair was even doing something cute, a little flippy thing that I didn’t arrange on purpose, but it looked like I had.

“How do I look?” I asked.

“Adorable, with a dash of deadly. What about your makeup?”

“Makeup? Aw,
shit.
”

“No, no. I’ve got it,” he informed me. “Sit down, and I’ll tart you up.”

“Not
too
tarty. This is black tie, not Neighbors. Not that there’s anything wrong with Neighbors, but you know what I mean. San Francisco was costume time. This isn’t.”

He said, “Don’t worry,” and was already digging out his makeup bag. “We’ll keep it minimalist. You already have great skin; all you need is a touch of polish. Some mascara, some blush. A dab of gloss, and you’ll be golden.”

“Great,” I said, trying not to sound too dubious. It’s not that I didn’t trust his skills. It was just that I didn’t ever wear makeup. It feels weird, all that stuff all over my face.

But he did a good job. When he was finished I looked decidedly “more put together” but not a bit “draggy,” as promised, and he hadn’t even gotten a speck of powder on my collar.

Ten minutes later he was fully dressed as well, and looking mighty fine, if I might say so as a completely impartial and disinterested observer of a fine male form in a well-tailored suit. I said, “You clean up real nice.”

“Thank you. Now if this were only the sort of gig where I could get away with some false eyelashes …”

“I bet you were one hell of a prom date.”

“Never had a prom,” he said. “But it would’ve been fabulous, yes.”

“Really? No prom?” I hadn’t had one either, but it wasn’t surprising, given when I was last in school. “That’s a shame. Feel free to pretend this is the big day, if you like.”

“But I didn’t bring a corsage.”

“Screw the flowers.” I picked up my fancy-schmancy purse, a strapped jobbie that was too large to be called a clutch and a little too big to go nicely with what I was wearing. “You brought the eye makeup, which is much more useful.”