by Evie Byrne
He paused to tune-in to Helena. She was asleep, and dreaming. Her dreams were busy and maybe confusing, but at least she wasn’t having nightmares because of him. He found a dusty copy of the Betty Crocker Cookbook above the stove and decided to make her breakfast.
Helena woke to the smell of food. It reminded her of childhood, of those slow starting Sunday mornings where her parents lingered in bathrobes, sharing out the paper and pouring endless cups of coffee for each other while she read the funnies.
She missed them so much. Sometimes she woke up thinking they were still alive, that she could call them and tell them about a movie they’d like or something silly like that.
A whiff of coffee coiled around her nose, so strong she could almost see it, like in cartoons. It wasn’t her imagination. A pot of coffee was brewing downstairs. Who was cooking?
Bolting upright, she looked at the clock. It was 6:30 a.m. Past sunrise. Who the heck was cooking?
She threw on a robe and ran into the kitchen. It smelled great, not fancy, just happy. Like her memories of her parents. The coffeepot was full. Someone had set a single place at the counter, with a mat and napkin and everything. The syrup bottle and butter dish sat next to the plate. The oven was set to warm, and a sticky note was on the door. The handwriting was bold, stylish caps, like architect lettering, and it read “Better than elk?” Inside the oven she found a beautiful short stack of pancakes and a covered dish of scrambled eggs.
Alexander Faustin. Her mind twisted around, trying to imagine the naked, blood-soaked man who’d burst in her back door the night before cooking pancakes. His eyes had been crazy—shining and spinning like wheels, like he was tripping on something.
But then he’d sounded perfectly normal through the door. Like it was no big thing to hunt and kill elk with your bare hands. In the middle of the night. Naked.
Yet she believed him. Just as she’d known he was lying that morning when he left her and got burnt, she knew he was speaking the truth last night. Anyway, the night before had been his last night in her basement. There’d be no more of this weirdness after today.
That was good.
It was.
She poured a cup of coffee and took the food out of the oven. What did a vampire know about breakfast? A lot. The pancakes were fluffy and golden, the eggs perfectly cooked and rich with cheese. Alex could cook. It made no sense.
Vampires could cook but she couldn’t. Jeff always said if she just tried harder—Helena squelched that thought. No Jeff thinking allowed. Most especially not anything he ever said to her. His words could still wound at a distance. Instead, she retrieved the paper and read the funnies while she ate.
While cleaning up she discovered Alex’s secret. A pile of burnt and malformed pancakes hidden at the bottom of the wastebasket. That stack of three perfectly round, fluffy, golden pancakes was the cream of about fifteen tries. The corners of Helena’s mouth twitched until she gave up and let herself grin. Those malformed pancakes made her ridiculously happy.
Thankfully the phone rang so she didn’t have to think that one through.
“Hey, stranger,” Lacey said. “Whatcha been up to?”
Helena squirmed a little. She’d been avoiding Lacey, because Lacey read her too well.
“Deadline,” she said. “A big, bitchy grant application. It’s almost done.” She hated lying, but she’d already dug herself in this deep.
Lacey made a skeptical noise. “No grant application ever kept you from taking booze breaks. You sure something else isn’t going on? You feeling bad? I know today is the anniversary…” She trailed off awkwardly.
The anniversary of the car wreck that killed her parents. Lacey was right, but the date had snuck up on her. No wonder she’d been thinking of them.
“Do you want to do something tonight? Go to a movie?”
She wanted to. But she also wanted to be there at sundown to make sure Alex left. And to say thanks to him for the pancakes. And the offer of marriage. She leaned her forehead against the refrigerator door and closed her eyes.
“Helena?”
“Um, the grant deadline is tomorrow. I have to work tonight. But tomorrow night would be good. After I take the grant to Fed-Ex, we’ll par-tay.” She made her tone deadpan. “Go to Milligan’s. Rip our tops off and dance on the tables.”
“You wild child.” Helena imagined her friend’s grin. It could light a city. “Okay. Tomorrow. But seriously, call me if you need me. You know I love you.”
Well, Helena hadn’t totally lied. She did have a grant application to work on, so she poured a cup of coffee and headed down to her office. As she passed the basement door a little tingle coursed down her neck and back. Yes, Alex was down there. She always knew when he was around. That was another thing she didn’t like to think about too much.
She sat down at her computer, checked her mail, checked Facebook, did all she could to avoid actually working. By the time she’d actually settled into work she was feeling the effects of a big breakfast. The office was too warm. Her eyelids began to droop. She typed the same sentence twice. Gulping down the cold remains of her coffee didn’t help at all. Sleep was a lure. A hook on a long line.
The subway doors parted and an old Chinese woman carrying a box of grapefruits walked off the train. Helena stepped on. It was a narrow car, two rows of seats facing each other,, the aisle studded with upright poles. An abandoned newspaper fluttered at her feet. She smelled urine.
At one end of the car a young man wearing the loose pants and clogs of someone who worked in a kitchen slept with his head against the window. At the other end of the car sat Alex, handsome like he used to be, wearing the same chunky sweater and jeans he’d worn their first night together. Clothes that Mikhail had cut off of him after the burn. She’d lent him scissors to do it.
The doors shut behind her and the train began to move. She grabbed a pole so she wouldn’t fall over.
Alex glanced up. His eyes widened. “Helena! What are you doing here?”
“Where are we?”
“In New York. On the 6 train, I think.”
“What am I doing here?”
He laughed. “That’s what I asked you.”
The train lurched. Alex caught her and made her sit down next to him. His expression turning serious, he brushed the hair out of her eyes and said, “Maybe you came here because I was thinking about you.”
His fingers lingered on her face, tracing the shape of her lips.
“This is a dream, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” he nodded, his focus still on her lips. “The question is whether it’s your dream or mine.”
“It’s mine, of course.”
He chuckled. “But this is my train.”
She resisted the temptation to thread her fingers through his unruly hair. She’d missed it. Before the burn he’d been one of those guys who always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. With a self-conscious smile he stopped fondling her face and rested his elbow on the seat back. Still, his hand dangled near her shoulder and their knees almost touched. It was almost painful not to touch him when he was so close. And the way he looked at her made her nervous, so she started to babble.
“Did you like growing up in New York?”
“Nothing could be better. You been here?”
“Yes, twice on business. But I didn’t know my way around.”
“You should come visit me. I’ll be your tour guide.”
“New York by night.” It sounded bitchier than she meant it, but then she realized that it did bother her.
He let the bitchiness roll by. “New York never sleeps. And I can show you things no one else ever sees.” His mouth quirked. “Like the home life of a typical vampire family.”
“If you guys invite me to dinner, I’ll be sure not to accept.”
“Vamp jokes, Helena? I like that.” He leaned in, like he might kiss her, but a sudden thought lit up his face. “You can meet Maddy. Gregor’s wife. She’s fantastic. She used to be like you�
��human, that is.”
“Oh.” What did you say to that? Congratulations? Welcome to Tickville?
“I just meant that if you wanted to talk to someone who knows both sides, she’s there.”
Helena nodded. “I understand. I just don’t think…honestly I don’t think this is something I could ever do. Give up my days.”
Alex reached up to stroke her cheek. “But think of all the nights you’ve missed.”
“Why can’t you be a normal guy?” She meant it with all her heart. Her voice broke when she said it. Alex leaned forward and kissed her. Slowly. His lips lingering over hers. Until, just as slowly, her lips parted.
With a long groan he pulled her close. She gave up the fight, dug her fingers into his thick, loose curls and kissed him for all she was worth.
The overhead lights of the train dimmed and brightened again. The seat vibrated, making her aware of the tingling in her thighs and a distinctly wet sensation between her legs. One of his hands played over her knee and up and down the back of her calf. It felt ridiculously good. She’d missed his touch. His taste. Except…
She broke the kiss. “You won’t bite me?”
His eyelids lowered suggestively. Opening his mouth, he showed her his long incisors. She drew back, but he kept hold of her waist. He tested the sharp tips with his tongue and smiled. “I’d only do that in my dreams. Don’t you worry about it.”
Helena wasn’t particularly convinced. If she had any sense she’d wake up. He reached up to undo a button at her throat. “What are you wearing under this coat?”
In that dream way, she didn’t know.
“Stand up,” he said. “Let me see.”
The train stopped in an empty station. No one got off or on. The doors closed, the lights flickered, and they started to roll again. She gripped a pole and cast a nervous glance at the sleeping guy while Alex untied her short, black trench coat and undid all the buttons. The coat fell open and a hot breeze washed over her bare skin.
One side of Alex’s mouth quirked up and his eyes took on a devilish gleam. “I didn’t know they made things like this in Colorado.”
He stripped the coat from her shoulders and turned her around so she could see herself reflected in the dirty window. Behind her, his body was solid black shadow, his coal-dark eyes startling in his white face.
He ran his hands up her sides. She wore a black leather bustier. Her breasts quivered in the shallow cups. Changing direction, he drew his hands down her waist and over her hips. She wore a short, short skirt. More like a belt with ambitions. Underneath that, garters and stockings. Where’d this getup come from?
He slipped his fingers under the hooks that held the stockings and murmured, “Gorgeous.”
Helena didn’t recognize her reflection. Usually her bob made her look like a schoolmarm. Now it made her look like a dominatrix. She was built long and lean, and maybe she didn’t run races anymore, but she looked good. The weight she’d put on just made her more curvy. It was the first time she’d ever looked in a mirror and really liked what she saw.
“Goddamn, woman, you are sexy.” Alex kissed her bare shoulder. Stepping between her and the window, he asked her to grip the bars over her head. She did as he asked, taking a wide stance to brace herself against the rocking. He sat down in front of her. In the window behind his head she saw herself stretched out in an X, as if she’d been crucified. She didn’t recognize the languid, hungry expression on her own face. But she looked down and saw the need in Alex’s.
He lifted her foot onto the seat beside him. The stiletto heel rocked on the seat. Running his hands over her tensed calf, he said, “You have the legs of a goddess.”
He kissed her calf, her knee, her inner thigh through the stockings. She couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t let go of the handholds without falling over.
He pressed her thigh to one side, opening her legs so he could run his tongue along the bare skin above the stockings. His hot breath washed over her thighs. She realized she wasn’t wearing any underwear. At that same moment, he grabbed her bottom and pulled her against his mouth.
Helena choked back a scream as his tongue parted her flesh, lapping her in deep, long strokes.
“The smell of you,” he groaned. “It makes me crazy.”
With that he sent two fingers up inside her and bent his head to suck her clit.
“Fu—!” Helena lost her breath, and tried again, this time coming up with a faint, “Oh!”
What are you doing to me? She really didn’t know. All of his fingers were busy. His long tongue way too talented. Was that her G-spot? Did he have two tongues? Or was that his thumb? Oh God.
“Alex!” She couldn’t hold on. She’d faint. Or pee. She couldn’t do this. And they weren’t even alone. “Please. Please stop.”
But he didn’t. She squirmed and writhed so much her breasts fell out of the cups of the bustier. Through half-closed eyes she saw her bare breasts in the window, her open mouth, Alex’s head between her pale thighs. Focusing more, she saw another face in the window, small and far away. It was the other passenger. He was awake and had his hand down his pants.
“Alex—”
Alex shot a glance toward the far end of the train. “You like an audience?”
“No!”
“Open your eyes.” While he spoke he still worked her with his fingers and thumb. “Look at yourself. He’s never seen a woman like you. Beautiful. Wild.”
He paused to suck and lap at her. Helena looked at the guy’s reflection in the window again. His eyes were wide, his mouth slack. He’d shoved his pants halfway to his knees and was beating off shamelessly. The rhythm of his hand was the same as Alex’s in her, like they were both getting her off.
This was filthy. The train was filthy. Someone else could get on. Were there security cameras? Guards beating off in a booth somewhere? Yep, there was a camera in the corner. In the lens she saw herself spread-eagled. All these eyes. Like hands on her body. But she wasn’t herself. No one would recognize her. With Alex here, she could be as bad as she wanted. She looked over her shoulder, straight at her voyeur. It startled him. With a smile she spread her arms and arched her back, letting her head fall back and breasts point at the ceiling. Hanging in suspension like that, she twisted her hips provocatively, grinding herself against Alex’s face.
The guy jacked off faster.
Alex pressed her hard.
Stringy white jets jerked out of the guy’s fist and splattered on the floor.
Helena crested, and the orgasm broke like a dam. She lost control of her legs. Lost her grip. Collapsed into Alex’s lap.
“You like this?” Alex smoothed his hand over her bottom. She realized he wasn’t talking to her. His voice was different. Menacing. “You want some?” He gave her bare ass a cracking slap. She came again under the burning sting. Helpless. Moaning. Shameless.
The train jolted to a stop.
“You couldn’t handle her,” Alex said. “Show’s over. Get the hell off my train.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the guy bolt for the door.
“He’s going home to fuck his girlfriend. He’ll be seeing you the whole time.”
Their bodies jostled with the train. Alex’s eyes snapped, blacker than black in the harsh fluorescent light. This was an erotic game for him—and it was not. Part of him was crazy jealous. And she liked that. She ran her hands under his sweater, imagining the contours of his lean torso. The muscling of his abdomen. Those rosy nipples. Everywhere her hands passed, his skin jumped.
“If I’m sexy, if I’m wild, it’s because of you. It’s what you do to me.”
His brow creased. He took a deep breath and kissed her, cradling her face between his hands. It was so urgent, yet so tender. She lifted her hips so he could open his pants, and she straddled his waiting erection.
Alex moaned as she took in the length of him. His head fell back against the window. His eyelids fluttered. “Jesus, Helena.”
The sight of him li
ke that—undone, vulnerable, paralyzed by pleasure—brought out the predator in her. She nipped his lips, his earlobe, the soft flesh under his jaw. Each bite a little harder than the last, pushing the limits.
It made him shake. Not with fear, she knew, but barely controlled excitement. He made her shake the same way. His chest rose and fell against hers with each of his hard, panting breaths. She mouthed the length of his throat, her saliva sharpening the odor of his skin. How she wanted to devour him.
“Do it,” he gasped. “Bite me.”
—she woke on the floor of her office with her hand between her legs.
Chapter Eight
At twilight Alex poked his head into the living room. “Would you mind if I used your bathtub?”
His voice brought back the dream she’d been attempting to repress all day. That kinky, disturbing dream that still had her wet.
Helena nodded and gestured that he should go up to the master bedroom. He walked carefully into the living room, like a thief, like he shouldn’t be there. In his hand he carried a black overnight bag. One of the things Mikhail had retrieved from the hotel.
The voice might be the same, but this was not the dream Alex. Emphatically not. As usual, he wore nothing but her sleeping bag. His skin had faded from red to a dead, clay white and was covered with a network of dry, painful-looking cracks. He headed up without a word, the tail of the bag dragging behind him, and she let her thanks for breakfast die unspoken.
An hour passed. She heard the bathtub draining, and filling again. What was he doing up there? She watched TV, taking in nothing, thinking about her parents a lot. If she didn’t think about them, she thought about the dream. Both lines of thought were torture. She’d started in on a book when she heard the stairs creak, and looked up to see him pausing on the steps to look back at her. He’d transformed.
Giving her a hint of a smile, he continued down the stairs. Instead of wearing the sleeping bag, he carried it. He wore an expensive-looking white shirt and a pair of nice black pants. His feet were bare and his sleeves rolled up. Some of his hair had grown back, she realized. Maybe a quarter inch of black stubble covered his skull.