Immortal Rage

by Jax Garren

  “Ah, Emma,” he said, voice full of relief. He turned their bodies so they faced the sink, blocking them from view of the doorway. As his lips tickled her throat, his hand skimmed up her inside thigh until he cupped her sex. He stroked her slowly through the thin cotton of her underwear. It was the same unhurried touch she remembered from their night together. “I’ve thought about you so many times since that night.” His husky voice in her ear sent a shiver down her spine.

  She closed her eyes, a whirl of mixed emotions inside her chest. “You don’t need to pay me nothing for the bite, Javi. I’ll let you have it free and clear.”

  His movement hesitated. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Paying you?”

  Maybe it was the alcohol, but she didn’t like that he’d stopped. She shifted her hips, making her own rhythm against him since his had stopped. “I don’t know what’s cogitating in that handsome head of yours. Don’t mean I want you to stop. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

  A guttural sound that spoke more than words came from him. He shoved aside her panties and stroked again, teasing his fingers against her until she was slick.

  “God, Javi.” His teeth and lips continued dancing along her skin, and each touch sent more sensation to her center. This wasn’t normal. The way she lit up and wanted—she couldn’t remember the last time that’d happened. Sex was a way of tricking men into feeding her. They didn’t play. They didn’t enjoy each other. He got off and she got fed. It was a trade.

  A trade. The old numbness, constant companion of sex, started to settle into her skin, taking the edge off her high.

  Javier kissed her jaw and whispered her name. His fingers dove into her and curled. Sparks chased back the numbness, and she moaned.

  “God, I could do this for hours. You feel so good.”

  She laughed, suddenly shaky. “I think you’d get tired of standing there, even if you are a vampire.”

  “Never.” Another kiss. “Although I suppose at some point I might try to take your dress off.” His free hand slid up and down her rib cage. “Give my other hand something to focus on.”

  His touch shifted, focusing from a different angle, and she nearly lost her footing. He caught her, pulling her tight against him, body to body.

  Past focus, she didn’t care anymore if she was caged between a man and a counter. It didn’t matter what it meant, if it was an exchange or just two people with a little too much tipsy blood touching like a couple of teenagers in his mom’s kitchen. “There. Do that.”

  The pressure built inside her until she couldn’t stand it. She wrapped an arm up and around his neck, needing to touch him back. “Javi… oh, Javi.”

  “I’m right here. I got you.”

  “Bite me. Now.”

  His fingers hesitated, delaying that perfect space she wanted. “What?”

  “Bite me. And dammit, don’t stop what you’re doing.”

  “Oh.” He found his rhythm again.

  She gripped his thigh with her free hand, fingers digging in as her breath hitched.

  His head dipped until his soft hair brushed against her cheek, then he bit her neck, shallowly, just above the collarbone. Sensation pulsed through her, making her gasp. She wanted to curl up against him, crawl into his skin, and be part of him. The emotion was so strong it scared her. She put a hand on his, trying to still the feeling that had gone from perfect to too much in an instant.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Huh? No. Finish your drink, hon. Just a little sensitive.” That sounded right, didn’t it? She wasn’t used to losing her head.

  He chuckled, a low, sex-drenched sound. “Oh.” His tongue swirled across her skin, and she relaxed back into him. She’d said something okay. “I was afraid I’d hurt you.”

  His mouth gentled on her skin, sucking lightly as she ran her hand through his hair. He interlaced their fingers and gently set her clothing to rights, making her feel taken care of. A few moments later, he kissed her shoulder, the bite over. Fingers still intertwined, he lifted them to his mouth and, with a teasing smile, sucked his fingers clean. “That was awesome.”

  She turned so they were face to face, and he dropped his hands to her waist, still holding her. There was a problem, though, that she hadn’t really thought through before they started. “Somebody’s got an issue here.” She bumped her hips forward, gently rocking against his straining erection. “Need me to fix that?” She tried to keep the tension out of her voice, but it seemed to creep in. She didn’t want to; it was cool to be on the receiving end without further obligation. But that was terribly unfair. Javier was sweeter than most men she knew, so she should reward that with enthusiasm.

  Why was it so hard to fake it with him?

  He studied her, and she turned away, unable to meet his eyes. “If you want to,” he said quietly.

  She swatted him on the rear. “I don’t mind. I’m a professional fixer of such things.”

  He stepped back, his hands dropping away from her. She missed the connection. Remind a man you were once a whore and watch how fast he backs away. She couldn’t exactly blame him for being like everyone else.

  “Not minding is not the same thing as wanting to. I’m okay.”

  She frowned, more disappointed than relieved, even though he’d given her the answer she wanted. Confusion made her frustrated, even if it wasn’t his fault, and she found herself snapping, “You’re turning down a blow job?”

  His eyes widened in surprise, and suddenly he looked so young. “I am?” He cleared his throat and got his expression back under control. “I mean, yeah. I am.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “We’ll go at your pace. That’s better.”

  Anger, unfair yet all encompassing, flooded her. “My pace? Six to ten guys a night, that’s my pace. One fucking blow job is nothing. You think I’m some glass twit with a case of the vapors?”

  He threw his hands in the air like he was trying to pacify her… except his hands were in fists. “I don’t think you’re a twit, and the vapors isn’t a real disease.” His hands opened slowly and he dropped them, squeezing his fingers back into fists, then pulling them behind his back.

  She squeezed her own fists until her fingernails dug into her skin. The pain helped stuff rage back into the trunk she hid it in—a wooden box with hearts and rainbows all over it. Reminders she wasn’t that angry person. Too bad the trunk kept getting bigger. Big-ass, really old trunk. She forced a smile to her face, and her cheeks hurt with the effort. “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

  He touched her shoulder again, rubbing lightly with just his thumb, his expression careful. “It’s okay. I get those sometimes too.”

  “Bursts of rage where you yell at somebody who don’t deserve it? We’re a pair. I look forward to your first rage fest at me.” Maybe he’d done that at one time—probably at someone who deserved it, like one of Danielle’s asshole ex-boyfriends—but he was so slick now, she doubted a shouted word passed his lips anymore. “Only problem with your rage versus mine is I’ll likely deserve it. I’m old hat at pissing folks off.”

  He squeezed her shoulder and didn’t answer. She wanted to lean into it. She wanted to run away.

  Time to push this whole episode into the denial trunk—another enormous receptacle, this one scrawled with made-up sigils and a whole host of “Do Not Open!” signs. Also known as the Sanity Trunk. A bag of flour and some butter and sugar and something wild like chocolate and Hatch chili peppers sounded great about now. She’d bake up a storm. Make something good and pretty. Something everybody would love and admire, and she’d give it all away and people would be happy.

  Was she crazy if she asked Javi if she could use his sister’s larder and tins? Yeah. That probably fell into crazy. “Well. This kitchen looks good and clean,” she finally said. “I suppose we should rejoin the party.”

  He nodded. As she walked past him, he slid his hand down her arm and caught hers, intertwining their fingers and pulling her to a halt. �
��Tuesday’s my night off. Want to catch a movie?”

  “Uh… Tuesday?” Warning flags flew up all over her psyche. She ignored them. They should be social, being fledgling and sire and all. Besides, it could be fun. He wouldn’t need a vein tapping for a month or so, so there was little chance of repeating tonight’s… whatever this was. “I ain’t got much going on. What you looking to see?”

  The excitement in his eyes was contagious, and she was glad she’d said yes. “I scored preview passes to the new Marvel. You interested? If not, we can do something else…”

  “Preview?” The thought made her grin. “Hell yeah. I love them flicks. I ain’t missed a one.”

  The relief on his face was obvious. “Oh, good. I would’ve gone to something else but—”

  “That would’ve been stupid.”

  With a smile like she hadn’t seen on him since they’d first met, he headed for the door, still holding her hand like they were sweethearts or something. Did he even realize he was doing that? He tugged and she came forward. Holding hands. Going to the picture show.

  Something he’d said earlier clicked into place. We’ll go at your pace. She’d been so thrown by his hands on her hoo-ha, and skin-tingling crazy, that the implication hadn’t registered. He thought they had a pace. Did he think he was asking her on a date? When was the last time a man had asked her on an honest-to-God date? At least, one who knew about her past? A lump started in her throat. How cool was that? She had to be misinterpreting. “Javi?”

  His smile turned to her, all friendly sunshine. “Emma?”

  “So the picture show…”

  He chuckled. “I love it when you use old words.”

  She kicked the floor. “I’m nigh unintelligible when I really get going. But about that movie and us. Is that, like, a”—spit it out—“date? Or are we going as friends, a sire-fledgling get-to-know-you-without-our-hands-in-each-other’s-drawers sort of event?”

  He tugged her forward, and she let him. “Dates are about getting to know each other, or at least that’s my understanding; I couldn’t afford them in high school, spent college trying to figure out what the hell I was doing with my life, and didn’t have time in med school. But that’s my understanding.” He looked down, voice light as he walked the line between serious and joking so well, she couldn’t tell which this was. “I don’t think we need to make decisions yet about hands and”—his gaze skimmed over her, making her skin feel hot—“other things.”

  “But I’m going to be thinking the whole movie about what you’re expecting after. I ain’t a high-dollar escort doing the girlfriend experience. You want that, go to Scarlet. They do all kinds of arrangements. I keep telling you, Jenna is exactly what you’re looking for.”

  His temper flared, and she felt powerful, in an evil sort of way, for having broken his facade. “I don’t want a sex worker. I’m not looking for a ‘girlfriend experience.’ I want—”

  She pounded a finger into his chest. “Well, I am a sex worker, and not even a nice one at that. Low-rent, bottom-of-the-totem-pole, cheap-as-shit hooker. You can dress it up all you want to with fancy talk about dates, but soon as you take my clothes off, you’re dealing with the same girl who ain’t got no idea how many men been there done that.”

  “You’re not a prostitute anymore!”

  Anger seethed up out of nowhere, and her voice dropped dangerously low. “Oh, I’m not, am I? What you think a dinner date is? He gets off, I get fed. Same shit I been doing since thirteen, when the Laurenstein boys trapped me in the barn and left me with bloody skirts, a bottle of cream, and a loaf of bread.”

  He put his hand to his mouth like her life horrified him. “Holy shit.”

  Words spilled out in a raging flood she couldn’t seem to control. “Don’t you even. They left it in a basket with handles so I could carry it home, but I didn’t. After I got over being weepy, I ate the whole damn thing right there in the hay, not one crumb for my family, and I didn’t care none if that made me a selfish bitch. I hadn’t ate so good in months. It was a mighty fine trade, all things considered. Ain’t like my virtue was gonna net me some landed gentleman anyways. Best prospect I had was another starving farmer and sixteen kids of my own—and that’s best-case scenario. So you and your high-and-mighty upward mobility, you just shut up. Don’t tell me who or what I am. Once I got over my damn self, I was happy to be a whore. Your and everyone else’s ‘you too good for this’ bullshit is an ignorant, high-handed pile of crap.” She could barely form a coherent sentence, and tears pricked at her eyes. She had to get out. She shoved the heels of her hands into Javier’s chest, and he backed up, surprise and confusion on his face as she stormed past him.

  Had she overreacted? She overreacted sometimes. It was hard not to when people always told her who she was. It was either judgmental pricks with their “once a whore, always a whore” mentality, or it was judgmental do-gooders with their “poor Emma,” poverty-victim-weakling. Those folk always got so surprised when she didn’t want their damn help, and often as not they turned nastier than the prejudiced asshats who liked her “knowing her place.”

  Javier had made it clear multiple times now that he forgave her past. Problem was, way she saw it, there wasn’t anything to forgive.

  * * *

  Javier leaned against the opening to the kitchen, not sure whether to follow or give her space. He’d hit a trigger.

  A trigger, that’s what the counselors called it. A thing that made the gun go off in your head and your limbic system take over. No more thinking, just acting.

  At thirteen he’d been labeled with “anger management issues.” He’d seen the foster paperwork. Great reading for a bad self-esteem day. Low IQ, violent outbursts, sexual acting out, anger management issues, gang affiliated, poor concentration, drug use. Half of it hadn’t been true—the fact that he spoke Spanish didn’t mean he was in a gang any more than a fourteen-year-old who liked looking at skin mags was a sexual deviant. But once a “concerned citizen” said something, it stuck with a kid forever. Honestly, it was a shock that a family had been willing to take him in, with his thick, vice-ridden case file.

  But after the beating incident, he and Rhi had ended up at the Harrisons, a stern but friendly family in the suburbs that made their living off of fostering hard cases. A fourteen-year-old with anger management problems and a suicidal ten-year-old were right up their alley.

  For the first time ever, a family had gotten him quality therapy instead of just enough therapy for medication. He’d spent the year with them figuring out what set him off and how to handle it in a constructive instead of destructive manner. As he’d gotten better at dealing with his own outbursts, he’d started to recognize the same pattern in other people. In times like this, when he once would’ve taken someone’s words to heart, he recognized the same confused reaction he’d spent most of his life responding with—a reaction he still had to fight.

  If it were him, he’d want her to follow. He strode through the hallway after Emma and caught the back door just before she shut it.

  She rounded on him. “Javier—”

  He put a hand up. “Wait. I upset you. I get that. I’m going to let you go. But please, tell me you’ll explain what I did. You don’t need to tell me now. When we’re both calm is good. But I want to understand so I don’t do it again.”

  The hard set of her shoulders slumped, and she folded her arms. “It ain’t nothing. Just ignore me. I’m overreacting. Hysterical woman.”

  She was pushing him away again. He tamped down the rising frustration. “Hysteria isn’t a real disease either. What did I say?”

  She rolled her eyes, clearly wanting out. It was the first time he’d ever seen her like this, closed off and defensive. But she was staying. Closed off and present was a vast improvement over a plane to San Francisco. “It’s my drama. Not yours. You don’t need to worry about it none.”

  Gingerly he took her elbow, trying to create some connection to soothe his own flailing emotions an
d maybe get her to open up. “A few minutes ago, you said we were family now. So let’s not pretend I didn’t just piss you off.”

  She bowed her head and tapped her heel in an angry rhythm. But she didn’t throw his arm off. “I want to be friends, Javi. But I don’t want to be nothing else. I’m sorry if I led you on in there. Wasn’t thinking straight.”

  The words stung, and he pulled away. “What’s wrong with me?” Stupid question. Why did he ask it?

  “It ain’t you. I don’t like sex.”

  His insides shrank as he tried to understand what she meant by that.

  “I’m thinking you ain’t looking for a girlfriend who don’t want to have sex with you. Ergo, you don’t want to date me.”

  She wasn’t attracted to him. But in the kitchen they’d just… and last summer…

  It had all been fake?

  He backed up as embarrassment flooded him, waking an old, long-simmering anger. His fists clenched as his vision blurred. After all he’d done, after how far he’d come, he was still not good enough when it mattered.

  Not her fault. Not her fault. He nodded. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry to bother you.” He turned away. Had to get somewhere else. Twenty minutes. When the limbic system, seat of emotion, hijacks control from the frontal cortex, seat of logic, it takes twenty minutes for the resulting hormone imbalance to rectify.

  When he was younger it never fully rectified. He’d lived with fear and anger for so long, saturating his brain with cortisol, suppressing serotonin and dopamine, that he’d literally lost control of his ability to make logical decisions.

  Anger management problems. That part of the file was true. The amygdala decided what stimuli passed to the frontal cortex for analysis and what stayed to trigger fight-flight-freeze. For years almost nothing got past his malfunctioning amygdala. That was what “anger management problems” meant—not that he didn’t control his reactions. He couldn’t. Everybody jumped when they saw a hose in the grass, thinking it was a snake. Then they calmed down and laughed. He’d jump when the wind blew the wrong direction or somebody looked at him funny… and he couldn’t calm down enough to laugh about it, because something else would’ve tripped the system before the chemicals could wash out. It’d taken a year in a stable household, therapy, and selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors to rectify what fourteen years of living on and off with Danielle and the nearly thirty houses he’d spent time in had done.