by Renee Rose
Someday.
He’s still standing there, so I walk to the door. Even though I’m exhilarated from our conversation, the exhaustion of the past week hits me, and I stifle a yawn before I push the metal bar on the glass-windowed door. I’m sure he can’t see it, because I’m already on the way out—
“Oh, one more thing, Miss Garcia?”
I turn to look at him.
“Sweet dreams. One more time.” And he winks.
Chapter 2
“You have anyone special to bring to the club for the masquerade ball next weekend?” Alain tosses back a whiskey and sets the heavy crystal glass onto the burnished counter.
We’re upstairs at Club Toxic, before the night gets insane with the supernatural and the humans who only look divine.
“No.” But my mind immediately goes to my sassy, sleepy student—Artemis Garcia, and her perfectly round ass and her pouty lips. Those long black curls. The way she talked to me just a few short hours ago after my class. “No one appropriate, anyway.”
He laughs. “What’s wrong with her?”
I roll my eyes. “She’s my student. I can’t fuck the kids.”
She’s not a kid, though. She’s a woman—lush, gorgeous and, from what I saw in her thoughts, into exactly the kind of kink that’s on display downstairs at Club Toxic.
“Remind me again why you decided to become an adjunct professor?” Alain raises a brow. “That’s a lot of exposure for a vamp who needs to fly under the radar.” He zooms his hand over the bar like a plane.
“I was bored. I wanted a challenge.” I shrug. “Last time I was in college was Harvard, just after it was founded.”
The truth is more complex. I’m lonely for companionship; homesick for the camaraderie that comes with existing in a bubble of like-minded intellectuals. Not that I’ve found it in the evening classes just yet.
“I bet Lucius gave you the side-eye about it.” Alain gestures to the bartender, who nods and slides over another glass of whiskey.
“He approved it. As long as I keep everything under control.”
“Does she like you?” He quirks a brow.
“She’s really talented.” I think about the mural she painted. “More than anyone I’ve seen in a long time.” Decades.
“Not what I asked.” He smirks.
“Yeah, she’s into me.” I can’t read minds, but like most vampires, I can get into human memories at times. And today, while the very enticing Ms. Garcia was drooling on her desk, I just took a quick peek inside hers and saw some epic memories of her fantasies… all about me.
It made me want to grab her, bring her here to the club, and spank her tight little ass right here, and fuck her in front of everyone.
“I may have flirted and said some inappropriate stuff to her today.” I laugh. “But before I did it, I got the sense that she’d be okay with it. But that’s all.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You don’t want to own her for a night?”
“Hell, yes. But I don’t want to have to wipe her. She’s got magic in her fingers. The art she creates?” I shake my head. “Don’t want to mess that up.”
I saw a brochure in her bag for an art show this weekend at the Etherton Gallery in downtown Tucson, which I assume she plans to attend. The carnal part of me wants to go there, too. See what happens.
“Don’t get too attached,” he warns. “It’s just harder when you have to leave them behind.” Easy for him to talk: he’s got his mate already and doesn’t need worry about hookups.
“I’m not planning to touch her.”
But as I make my denials, I have the irresistible urge to go find the naughty Ms. Garcia (because I’m one hundred percent sure she’s a very, very bad girl who definitely needs a spanking) and kidnap her, taking her to the dungeon.
I have a feeling she’d like it just as much as I would.
“Abuelita? I’m home.” I shut the door behind me and kick off my sneakers. “It smells great in here.” The aroma of birria fills the house.
She doesn’t reply, but I hear a rustling from the living room. I put down my bag and peek in—and it’s my stepbrother, Eddie. He’s lounging on the couch, shoes up on a pillow, eating pizza and staring intently at his phone.
“Temi, why you so late?” He barely looks up at me, but when he does, he scowls. “I had to freaking go to the Walgreens and get her scripts.”
I frown back. “So? I was at class, you know that.”
“Well, I had to pay for one of them, Temi. She didn’t give me enough cash. And it ain’t cheap.”
“Guess who usually helps pay for them?” I point to myself. “Where is she?”
He shrugs. “Sleeping. I don’t know why she bothers to cook so much when she’s just going to complain about her arthritis.”
“Who paid for the pizza?” I narrow my eyes.
“Don’t start.” He sits up and flips the greasy lid shut. “She knows I don’t like birria, so if she orders me something, no biggie, right?”
“Eddie.” I shake my head, the usual anger growing. I can see actual dried mud on the soles of his designer sneakers. “She can’t be spending her money on delivery. She barely has enough to cover her own expenses.”
“Well, she owed it to me for the meds anyway. And if you were back earlier, maybe you could have got her stuff and I could have gone on the job with Cesar.” He shrugs. “I gotta be available when he calls.”
I don’t know what he and Cesar do on their jobs. But if Eddie can bring in some money, he’ll be less of a leech on Abuela. Because despite the fact that he’s a total slacker, she loves him like she loves me—unconditionally. And forgives him every shitty thing he does. And hands his lazy ass cash. And lets him crash here for weeks at a time when he asks, even though I’m the one who pays most of the rent, and he pays nothing.
“I can’t deal with you.” I head to the kitchen and tap on Abuela’s bedroom door. “I’m home. Can I get you anything?”
She stirs. “I’m coming out, mija. One minute.”
When she emerges, her face is worn and tired, the lines more prominent. But her smile is brilliant. “Sweet girl. How was class?” She hugs me, then moves laboriously to a chair and sits. “Eat, eat. I cooked. Toppings are in the fridge.”
“Class was good.” I figure I won’t tell her how I fell asleep and flirted with my hot professor. I grab a bowl and ladle the birria in.
“You are learning a lot?” She leans in.
I nod. “Yup.” I take a mouthful and nod. “Amazing.”
“I’m so proud of you.” She pats my hand. “This will give you so many opportunities.”
I nod again, hoping she’s right. “It will take a long time to get the degree, though.” Especially working two jobs to pay for it on top of everything else.
“Time passes anyway. Might as well be doing something with it. And opportunities may arise even before the degree. Just being there will expose you to new things, and people.”
Out in the other room, Eddie turns up the TV as if our voices bother him.
I grimace and open my mouth, but Abuela looks away, so I stop.
She hates dissention, and it distresses her when I complain about Eddie, so I limit my bitching. It’s just that he takes advantage of her so hard and so often that it makes me sick.
“You have a glow,” she observes. “Did you meet someone special today?”
“What do you mean, a glow?” I stir the spoon in my bowl.
She gives me her knowing look. “Maybe a man? A nice, Mexican man?”
One interesting thing about Abuela is that she knows things before she should. Not lottery numbers, unfortunately. But sometimes, before her old landline phone rings, she’ll get up and walk in that direction and announce the name of the caller. She always knows when the monsoon is coming, although that could be just ‘that feeling in her bones.’ And often, she’ll have information that no one’s told her. That last part is the one that makes me wonder if she has a gift. But she won’t talk ab
out it, so I never ask.
“No, I didn’t meet a man.” I eat more birria. “Maybe my Mexican professor is a little cute. But that’s not the same thing.”
Cute is a very tame way to describe the complex feelings I have for Professor Locke, and cute would have no place in what I want him to do to me.
She nods. “I have a feeling about this one.”
“Abuela.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t know his name. You don’t know him. I don’t even know him.”
She shrugs. “Even so.”
I change the topic and we talk about her garden, which relaxes her. Eventually, Eddie gets a call and takes off without saying goodbye—we just hear the front door slam shut.
“I’ve got this.” Before Abuela can stand, I head into the living room to clean up his trash and vacuum up the dried mud particles he’s left behind. How did his shoes even get so dirty? It’s been dry as a bone these past few weeks. He’s such a disrespectful slob.
While I clean, I think about the project I need to do for my Photoshop class.
And I think about Professor Locke. A little smile comes to my lips… because I really can’t wait to see him again. I haven’t met someone who makes my heart skip a beat like this in forever.
It’s true that I don’t know him. But something about him just calls to me.
“Abuelita, you want to watch a rerun of your novela together?” I head back into the kitchen. “I’m off tonight, finally.”
“Temi, it’s getting late. I think I want to rest.” She hesitates, biting her lip as if thinking something over. Then she nods her head decisively. “Why don’t you go out tonight? You haven’t had any fun in months. Didn’t you miss a few gallery art shows because of your job?” She looks at me, her eyes keen. “I read they’re having a great exhibit at the Etherton gallery tonight.”
“Where did you read that?” I never showed her that brochure for the gallery, the one I slipped into my canvas bag.
She doesn’t answer this. “You need the break. Go.” She waves her hand. “The art will do you good.”
I laugh. “Are you sure?”
“Of course.” She nods.
“Maybe I will, then.” The gallery is open until two am tonight—there will be plenty of time for me to go enjoy some art.
I’d love a night out without worrying about homework or timecards or my shitty boss at the packaging center, who always stands a little too close, and looks at me a little too knowingly—not enough to even officially count as harassment, but just enough so that I sense he’s being pervy.
I glance back at the couch. Eddie’s mess is all cleaned up now, as if he’d never been here. Only the aroma of pepperoni lingers in the air, and a little whiff of cigarette.
“Did Eddie smoke?” I wrinkle my nose.
“I told him I don’t like that. It’s not good for my lungs.” Abuela looks away.
I take a breath before answering. “Okay.”
It’s not okay, but it will do for now. Maybe someday I can figure out how to talk to Abuela about being sterner with Eddie. Or maybe I’ll come up with a grand plan to force him to pull his weight. But for now, it’s all I can do to manage my job and school and life.
She puts her hand onto my arm. “Temi, go have fun. You worry too much.” She smiles at me, and when she does, I can see my mom for a split second, in the way her eyes wrinkle up and the way she tilts her head.
I nod, turning my head so she won’t see my sudden tears. “I will.”
She squeezes my hand. “It’s all going to be okay,” she says.
And although nobody can tell the future, I take comfort in her words. She’s so certain, so absolutely sure of herself, that I can’t help but feel a bit more confident myself.
Chapter 3
“Hey hey, welcome.” The young man at the door hands me a pamphlet stamped with the Etherton Gallery logo. “Here’s a dossier on our artists. There’s wine and snacks in the back.” He gestures. “And every purchase made tonight is fifteen percent off.”
“Thanks.” I nod and head into the brightly lit space, bypassing a group of chattering twenty-somethings with lip rings and colorful hair. The closest woman, who has brilliant green eyes, glances briefly at me and then looks again, her interest caught.
I could have her if I want—I can sense it. The urge to fuck and bite wells up in me—she smells good, with rich, delicious blood. And I do need to feed tonight, unless I want the bland, prepackaged and sterile blood packs in my fridge.
But I pass her by with a smile. I’m here hunting… and I’ll know my prey when I see her.
If I see her.
It’s a terrible idea to come here looking for my student, but fuck it, here I am. How could it hurt to just scope things out?
But after I flirted with her in class today, it was like I had to have her.
And suddenly, like magic, there she is! It’s Temi, and she’s gorgeous in a tight blue dress and heels. She’s gazing at a large abstract painting on the near wall. Her black curls cascade over her shoulders, and her perfect little ass is highlighted to distraction in that tight fabric.
Fuck.
My body reacts immediately. I want her more than I’ve wanted anyone in years. But I hold back, biding my time.
“Do you like this one?” A tall Caucasian man with little horn-rimmed glasses comes and stands close to Temi. “Doesn’t it really exude the effervescence of life, and at the same time, the dismal abyss of despair?” He touches her arm and his fingers linger too long. “It’s in the finer brush strokes. I’d love to explain it all to you, if you’d like.”
I fight the urge to grab him and rip his condescending head off.
I step closer, softly. Listening. See how she’ll respond.
“Um.” She ducks her head, as if unsure of herself. “I…”
“You look so… exotic. I love your skin color.” He stares at her with greedy, beady eyes. “Are you new here?”
“Um.” She blinks.
I wince inside. Why isn’t she showing him her fiery side, the one she showed me in the classroom? Not that I want her to flirt with him, but I can’t stand to see him walk all over her like that.
“Seriously.” He pats her arm, letting his fingers stay even longer this time. “Your expression looks a little confused. Let me tell you about the art here.”
I swear, if he says one more thing, I’m going to tear off his stubby fingers.
Finally, Temi takes a breath and sticks up her chin. She steps away from him so his hand loses touch with her arm.
“No.” Her voice is even and has a pleasant lilt, but she’s firm. “It looks like a poorly done Jackson Pollock knock-off. All I see is mimicry. I can explain that to you, if you’re confused about what I mean.”
Good for you, Temi. Eviscerate him. I don’t know why I care so much that she can take care of herself but for some reason, it matters to me. Maybe it’s because I want her and her submission so badly. And submission’s not worth anything to me unless it comes from a strong woman.
“Well, excuse me.” The man blinks rapidly and frowns. Crosses his arms. “You know, I’m an art critic for the National Art Times.”
“We’re all art critics in our own way, aren’t we? And for future reference? Don’t tell a Mexican woman that she looks exotic. It’s racist, worn-out, and reeks of white privilege.” Temi steps further away. “You enjoy your night.” She nods and gives him a brilliant grin, as if to temper her dismissal.
Then she sees me, and she stops. Stares.
“Professor Locke.” She clears her throat. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” She touches her cheek.
“Just call me Locke. We’re not in class.” I step closer as she does, too.
“Locke. Okay.” She smiles and I see her interest spark, but her eyes are a little distant. I think she’s still distracted from the asshole she just sent off like the stray dog he is.
I grab two glasses of champagne from a passing server and hand her one. “Cheers to Jackson P
ollock rip-offs.”
She laughs. “You heard that?” She seems embarrassed and pleased at the same time. This time, when her eyes meet mine, she’s fully present. As if I’ve been given some test, and passed.
“I agree one hundred percent with everything you said. Well done.” I raise my glass. I always give my admiration where it’s due.
“The art here is not very good tonight. I’m sorry, but it’s not. And I don’t like people being condescending to me because I’m….” she waves a hand at herself, “a woman. Mexican. I’m trying to be more outspoken. Say what I really think.”
“If he’d seen your portfolio, he’s be on the floor at your feet.” I raise an eyebrow.
An image of her at my feet flashes into my mind, and I resist the urge to put it into hers.
But fuck if she isn’t thinking the same thing, because her cheeks get more flushed and her chest heaves just a bit. “Let’s forget about him. He’s not worth the brain cells it takes to dismiss his image.”
“There are other images I’d much rather envision.” I look into her eyes and smile.
She sips her drink and flushes. “This is good.” I don’t think she means the alcohol.
We stare at each other for a second, and then another one. As time goes by, as the seconds click into oblivion, it’s increasingly obvious that there’s something between us. A bond that won’t be denied. I came here hunting her, and she’s eager to be caught. By me.
It’s all wrong, and I know it’s folly, but I reach for her free hand. “Artemis.”
“Temi.” She wraps her fingers around mine.
“That’s pretty.” I can feel her pulse, fast and strong. Her blood rushes through her veins, a river of gorgeous red. The lust nearly overtakes me. I rub her palm with my index finger. “If you’ve had enough of the scenery here, may I suggest that we move on to the next room?”
“That one isn’t available.” She points to the sign: ‘Exhibit Closed For Installation,’ and the red rope blocking the entrance.
“You brave enough to break the rules?” I regard her with a little smile.