How to Discipline Your Vampire (9 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Cerise

If I had roller skates on, you could call me Sex on Wheels. Damn, I looked fine in this little dress. I never thought flannel, the most unsexy and innocuous fabric of all time, could cling this well to my small curves and still suck in the parts of me that need sucking in. It was a matte black halter dress with sort of crisscrossed ruching along the torso that fell into a swishy skirt that stopped at my knees. I paired it with maroon pumps for effect. I wondered if this fashion designer was that Steve fellow his niece is married to. Then again, I wondered if Steve actually existed outside of the vampire journals.

I heard the purr of the car outside my door, so I slicked on some lipstick—MAC’s Full Bodied, a nice wine color, and walked out the door. The air was warm, finally, considering this had been the coolest spring in New Hampshire history. The sun was just starting to turn the sky pink, and I somehow knew tonight would be amazing. The inner cynic inside me had calmed, soothed by the warmth of the air and the sun.

William was standing at the doorstep with a long, blood-red calla lily. He was wearing a suit—surprisingly well fitted, with a trendy plaid handkerchief artfully folded into the pocket.

“You look breathtaking,” he said, taking my hand. He wasn’t timid in his touch. Usually, he recoils somewhat, perhaps ashamed of his cool complexion, but I slipped my hand into his and squeezed in consent. He smiled and opened the car door for me.

For a few minutes, we drove in relative silence, aside from the classical music pouring out of the car’s sound system. Piano, guitar, and even some lilting flute in the background. All perfectly arranged.

“What is this?” I asked about the tune. “Can’t be another original composition,” I said, immediately embarrassed by my assertion. I felt hesitant tonight. I didn’t know how to talk to him in this capacity. Date capacity. Not spanking or role-playing or post-coital dining.

“Yes, it is. I play many instruments, and we have a recording studio in the basement. I use it frequently, and Breanna loves to bring in friends for some high-tech karaoke sometimes,” he said, looking over at me for far too long.
Please keep your eyes on the road, William
. “I actually composed it after our talk. The only way I could express what I was feeling was through music, so I recorded it for you to hear.”

I listened to the melody. It thrummed in my ears, demanding to be heard. It was more forceful than his other music, but still soft in its own way. The piano begged; the guitar entreated.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s step one in my efforts to win back the attention of my mistress,” he responded plainly.

I smiled at his candor. “It’s a good start,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot.

The date began unceremoniously, which was honestly a relief. The place was relatively empty for a Friday night, which was nice because we could talk in private. The waiter poured some sparkling water, and I sipped it while staring at William for a moment. The candlelight made him seem more ethereal, and less real than I remembered. The way the dark shadows hung over his eyes while the fire’s glow illuminated his smile made me catch my breath.

“Are you all right, Cerise?” he asked.

I gasped. He had used my name. Then again, we were in public. “I’m fine, Mr. Gentry,” I replied formally. He caught my guarded expression and realized his mistake.

I decided to be bold with my ordering. I picked steak tartare as an appetizer to show him I was brave enough to eat raw meat in front of a “vampire.” To show my unashamedly brutal nature, I ordered foie gras, an old standby for me, even though the stuff was banned in a few states. I was not a member of PETA. For dessert, I selected a chocolate
crema,
since it involved a lot of licking the spoon.

He just ordered a salad and some pasta. I frowned at his generic selections, but kept my demeanor otherwise cheerful. We were, after all, on a date and not in the bedroom. Which freaked me the fuck out.

“Tell me about your roommates.” I cut to the chase—I needed to know about this fashion designer, fictional niece, everything.

He unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap smoothly. “Breanna is my niece, and we’ve been close for ages. She’s my best friend, and quite possibly the best nurse you’d ever meet. She is the head night nurse at one of my homes. Steven, her husband, is studying law at the moment. I own a few units down by Strawbery Banke, and they live above me, but it’s all connected. I like the company. Next door is my dear friend Harvey and his partner, Claude. Above them is a hippie couple that just smokes pot all day. I think Harvey enjoys the contact high.”

I laughed, “Sounds like a full house.”

“It’s a good time. There’s always someone around to talk to. And it’s big enough that we all have our privacy. What about you? Have you lived at your town house long?”

“A few years,” I replied curtly.

“Where did you live before?”

I shrugged, trying to shake the nervous feeling of having to talk about myself. “College and grad school at Boston University. I prefer New Hampshire to Mass, though.”

“I like the Seacoast better than the city,” he agreed.

“Where did you go?” I asked.

Now it was his turn to laugh nervously. “I’ve moved around quite a bit, and transferred programs more than once. Penn State, Villanova, even Columbia for a time. No school ever really gave me anything I could use until I got my MBA. Gave me the practical knowledge I needed to run a business.” His smoky eyes widened with interest when he began to discuss his job.

“You really seem to like what you do. Most people I know don’t smile when they talk about work,” I joked.

“They love visitors, and it’s nice to make someone’s day. Their stories are great, and having someone new to tell usually gets them all revved up. It’s entertaining. Just last week, this spitfire named Viola moved in. She told me stories about how she was the only woman at her art school, and how she’s mastered at least a dozen positions in our Elder Yoga class. It’s nice to just be an audience, sometimes.”

I nodded in agreement. “Kids are like that. They love substitutes. They tell me all about the teacher I’m covering for, who’s dating whom, and the like. People don’t give teenagers much credit—they can be pretty great people. I’ve actually gotten to know a few of them pretty well, despite being a substitute.”

He leaned forward emphatically. “I feel the same way about my residents. Elderly folks get a bad rap in our society, when in most cultures, they are revered. I wonder if it’s fear of age that makes us keep them at arm’s length.”

“And jealousy of teenagers’ youth.”

His expression darkened. “Youth is an illusion.”

I pursed my lips, not knowing what to make of the comment.

“I just mean that people can do what they want at any age, but they fear other people’s judgments. Youth doesn’t mean a thing.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Just last week, I was up at York Beach and there were three or four guys in their late fifties learning to surf for the first time. A few teenage girls walked by and made a joke about the geezers trying to be young and cool. Poor guys just finished their beers and left.”

“So why is youth an illusion?”

“It’s just something that limits people’s behaviors. People should just do what makes them happy.”

I thought about it for a moment. “Sometimes I clip colored extensions in my hair, and other teachers give me the stink eye.”

He gestured with his pointer finger. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Ignore age altogether and you’ll be happy.”

“How old are you? I honestly can’t tell. You’re either really mature for your twenties, or really relaxed for your thirties.”

William leaned forward, indigo irises examining me quietly. “Doesn’t matter.”

I nodded. “You’re right.”

The food came out, and William swirled his spaghetti around his plate while peppering me with more questions. A few times he took a bite and slightly grimaced.

“Okay, Mr. Spanish Inquisition, don’t think I didn’t notice that you left your spaghetti mostly untouched,” I said. “My background is part Italian, and we never let someone get away without eating.” I waggled my finger at him, cautioning, but his face grew somber.

“Hard limit, remember?” he said simply.

“Right.” I flushed with embarrassment. I would never push a hard limit, but because we weren’t in a scene, I thought I’d be all right.

“I had a little something before I came to get you,” he confessed. “Had to settle the nerves somehow. Saltines and root beer.”

I nodded. “I get it. No worries.” I rolled my neck, relieving some tension, and confessed. “I don’t date much . . . or ever. So yeah, I’m nervous, too.”

His shoulders dropped. “Good. I’m relieved,” he said, eyeing me from across the table. “And impressed. My buddy Harvey sure knows how to make flannel appealing.” He smiled roguishly.

I smoothed the dress. “It’s so comfy,” I said. “Maybe my weekends will be more interesting now. Can I thank Harvey personally?”

He took the bait. “Absolutely. He’s thrilled you even accepted my offer to wear it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s busily crafting other weekend outfits for you.”

“That’s very sweet of him,” I said, not knowing how to take this information.
How much does Harvey know? How much do his other friends know? Do vampires have friends?
“Does he always have this much free time for a friend?”

His face brightened. “He sees how happy I’ve been this week, aside from the past two days, and wants to help in any way he can.”

So, the gorilla in the room decided to make his entrance.

What the hell should I do?

“William, let’s talk about our arrangement,” I said. His body stiffened, anticipating my answer. “I’ll agree to finishing the rest of this month with you, and then we’ll see where things stand. I have to admit, it’s been good, but I must demand your complete honesty with me. This is a mutual agreement between us, and truthfulness works both ways,” I explained stiffly, then softened. “I do want to see more of you,” I confessed.

His entire body relaxed. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, handing me a wrapped parcel from beneath the table. “And in the spirit of honesty, I have something for you. This is my most recent journal.”

I looked at him quizzically, my mind bouncing back and forth between anger and fascination. “
Your
journal?” I asked. Implying
not
a vampire’s . . .

“My words, my heart, all in the pages.” His eyes were painfully sincere.

“Okay,” I breathed, and took the package as we headed back to the car. “Thank you.”

The museum we were headed to next was near Fenway Park, and I thought back to the days of my childhood when my dad had been my best friend, and how he would take me to baseball games. “Do you like baseball, William?”

He shrugged. “I’ll watch with Steve if it’s on, but I prefer hockey. It’s faster.”

I nodded. “Hockey’s huge here. God, when I was in college, the hockey players were celebrities on campus.”

He opened the door for me politely. “After you, Mis”—he leaned into my ear and finished the rest—“tress.”

I shivered.

We began in the section that held more traditional paintings. Matisse, Renoir, artists who I had heard of. “This is nice,” I remarked, holding his hand.

“You haven’t said much.”

“I don’t really know what to say. This place is beautiful.”

“Do any of the pieces speak to you?”

I frowned. “I like them, but there’s nothing that makes me want to really look at it longer, the way you do.”

“Whatever draws you in,” he said, tracing my spine with his finger. “It’s just preference, as is everything in life.”

“But what are you looking for when you’re staring at a painting for more than—I don’t know—three seconds?”

“A lot of things, I guess,” he answered, weighing his words. “I suppose I think about the artist, what his life was like when he painted the work, and maybe what inspired it, you know? What story is it telling?”

I sucked at art. “Cool.”

He laughed. “I think you may like modern art. There’s an exhibit upstairs. I think you may react more to it.”

We climbed the stairs together, arms locked, and approached the modern exhibit.

“I’ve never seen this particular artist’s work, but apparently he’s huge in Japan.”

I nodded silently and looked at the “art.”

They were just meaningless swipes of color and dots. The paintings meant nothing to me, and I worried that William would think less of me if I said so.

He lingered for more than a minute at one. It was a bunch of red swirls.

“You like this one,” I noted. “Why?”

He grinned at me with a wicked look. “It reminds me of you.”

I looked at the splotches and tried to find some semblance of me. “Ah, I don’t see it,” I laughed.

“It’s so sexual,” he said low and in my ear. “The curves”— he gestured to one in particular—“especially here. They mirror parts of your body.”

My voice caught in my throat. “Tell me more,” I croaked.

“And the red,” he purred, “is cherry red.” He reached his hand out, almost as if to stroke the thick curls of paint.

“I guess it
is
pretty sexy.”

He flagged for an attendant. “I’d like to buy this.”

“William!” I gasped, looking back and forth between him and the museum employee.

“Of course, Mr. Gentry,” the man said.

“Um, you know him?” I asked.

The young man nodded. “Mr. Gentry is a patron here.”

“I sometimes buy artwork for my facilities,” William confessed.

Those were some spoiled old people.

“Is this for them?” I asked.

He took my chin in his hand. “No, it’s for you. I’m thinking the big, blank wall across from your bed,” he growled softly after the attendant had taken a check.

“Th-thank you,” I stuttered.

He tipped his mouth to my forehead for a soft kiss. “Anything for you. In fact, as penance, I’ve prepared a special scene for you tomorrow. I know it’s the weekend, but—”

“I accept,” I said, feeling giddy. Erin would understand if I had to reschedule our tea for Sunday.