First Blood

by Susan Sizemore

  It confused her, annoyed her at the same time she wanted to believe it, enjoy it. She was trying really hard to look at him and hate him, but all she felt was a foreign softness in her heart, and a desire to lie on his couch, close her eyes, and sleep under his watch.

  So she left her hand in his, even let him stroke the back of her wrist with his thumb. But she did ask, “Why are you involved, Alistair? How did you know about me?”

  “Cassandra isn’t always discreet. One of her flaws is that she likes to brag. So word went around that she had a vampire in her custody who she was selling to slayers. My friend Jack, who you met downstairs, told me. Jack is the kind of guy that everyone likes and people talk to, so he hears a lot of gossip. If Cassandra is involved he usually tells me.” Alistair gave a sheepish smile. “I think it’s his way of reminding me what a bitch Cassandra is, in case I’m ever insane enough to think I want to get back together with her. But trust me, there’s no danger of that.”

  “So you intervened in order to anger your ex-wife?” She could understand that, even if it wasn’t noble, and she was willing to accept whatever had gotten her out of that prison masquerading as a guest room.

  “While ticking Cassandra off has its own appeal, that’s not really why I did it. I did it because I was disgusted by the idea that a vampire would turn on one of our own. She knew that turning you over meant death, a bad death. The slayers might have enjoyed torturing you, or experimenting with how quickly a vampire heals . . . they might have injured you over and over just for curiosity or a thrill before finally killing you. I couldn’t just sit back knowing exactly where you were. People don’t want to get involved, but how could I live with myself, you know?”

  Sasha had no idea how many men lived with themselves. She also knew that Alistair was right. The slayers would have taken a certain sick satisfaction in torturing her, because she had been a slayer herself before she had been turned. She hadn’t made friends in the group either, because she had been living with Gregor at the time, and was emotionally on the edge. She had been a little intense, and the slayers on the whole had not liked her.

  They would enjoy killing her.

  But it still boggled her mind that Alistair would risk his life to help her.

  “How old are you?” she asked him, curious.

  “Three hundred and fifty-eight last February.”

  “And you are British?”

  He nodded.

  Sasha turned her head to study him more closely, her injury making her wince in pain when she shifted. “You were married before Cassandra, yes?” He was the marrying kind, she could see that.

  “Three times total. First as a mortal, and once as a vampire long before Cassandra.”

  “And how did your vampire wife die?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

  It was confirmed when he pulled his hand out of hers, his lips pursing. But he did answer after a moment of silence. “Slayers. It was over two hundred years ago, though.”

  “I am sorry. Time dulls pain, but it does not go away.”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Alistair’s green eyes bore into her. “What happened to your mother, Sasha?”

  The words stuck in her throat, but Sasha swallowed hard. He had shared, she owed him the truth, even though it was painful and shameful to admit. “When Gregor tired of my mother, and would no longer feed off of her, or share her bed, she killed herself by swallowing half a bottle of tranquilizers.” Leaving her teenage daughter alone and at the mercy of a madman.

  He nodded, like she had confirmed his suspicion. “I’m sorry.”

  “As am I.”

  “You know, for two people who are immortal, we have seen an amazing amount of death, haven’t we?”

  Alistair’s words caught her off guard as she stared up at him, lying on her side under his sheet, and she sucked in a breath when she realized there were tears in her eyes.

  Unexplainable, unstoppable tears.

  Perhaps seeing death, knowing extreme isolation was why she struggled to find any joy in life.

  For the first time in seven long, isolated years, she didn’t fight, and let herself cry.

  FIVE

  OH, SHIT, HE’D MADE HER CRY.

  It was so unexpected, he just stared at her for a second. One minute she had been looking up at him, grave, but in control. The next, her eyes had gone wide, and silent tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her lip quivered but she didn’t make a sound, nor did she attempt to wipe the moisture from her face.

  He had come to think of her as such a tough chick, totally unflappable, but after he got over his initial shock, he was relieved to see her releasing some of that tension, that emotion. She’d been keeping years’ worth of pain and emotion bottled up, and it was time to let some of it go.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching over and swiping a stray tear off her chin. “It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. You’re free and no one is going to hurt you.”

  She gave a watery smile. “No one can hurt me any longer, Alistair, because I no longer have a heart.”

  So that was part of her fear. That she’d gotten so hard, so jaded, she couldn’t be normal again. “If you didn’t have a heart, you wouldn’t be crying right now.”

  Making a face, Sasha ran the tip of her finger across the sheet, still ignoring the wet streaks on her cheeks. “What a strange twist of fate that I am here, with you. This night has been more than you bargained for, I imagine.”

  In a lot of ways. He had never expected to be attracted to the woman he rescued. And he’d never expected to feel an indescribable and undeniable sensation that his attraction went beyond the physical. Sasha had pricked the emotional wall he surrounded himself with, and he really, really wanted to lean over and kiss her.

  Knowing that would result in her biting his lip, kneeing him in the nuts, or thrusting the palm of her hand up into his chin, he refrained. For the moment.

  “I didn’t exactly know what I was getting into, but I’m glad I could help you.” He indulged himself and reached out to touch the tip of her long hair. It still had her dried blood in it. “I’m glad I met you.”

  Instead of smiling back at him, she looked slapped. Her face went white and she closed her eyes briefly. When they reopened they were shiny with fresh tears. “Can I take a shower?” she asked in a tight voice.

  So she wasn’t going to acknowledge what he’d said, or what was between them. Alistair took it as a good sign that she didn’t just flat-out cut him down. She was fragile and he could be patient. “Is your wound closed yet?”

  She peeked under the sheet and made a face. “Not quite.”

  “Then you really should wait. Why don’t you sleep? Tomorrow night you’ll feel a lot better. Are you thirsty?”

  “No.” Sasha finally wiped her tears from her cheeks and took a deep breath. Settling back against the couch pillow, she closed her eyes and murmured, “Sorry I stole your money.”

  That made him smile. “No problem. I understand.” He did. She was trying to survive. That’s what her whole life had been about. Even with her eyes closed, she didn’t relax, didn’t loosen her shoulders, or lessen her grip on the sheet she held tightly to cover her bare chest.

  Sasha was wounded, in more ways than one, and Alistair knew he was in big trouble.

  Not from bodyguards with more brawn than brain who might be arriving to recapture Sasha, but from the woman herself.

  No doubt about it, he was attracted to her. And that attraction was getting bigger by the second.

  WHEN Sasha emerged from the bathroom the next night, her body healed and scrubbed clean, her hair still damp, but mostly blown dry, Alistair was sitting on his kitchen counter, bare feet dangling in front of the lower cabinets, his scruffy jeans worn at the knees. His short hair was sticking up in an amusing cowlick and his eyes were bleary, like he had a hard time waking up each night. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Sasha was startled to realize that she was assessing his body, greedily scanning his biceps and t
he planes of his chest, curiously eyeing the tuft of hair that poked up from the waist of his jeans.

  He was a very handsome man, she had to admit, with a lean and muscular body, and the power of his masculinity was actually sexy to her. Instead of scaring her with his height and strength, it intrigued. Maybe it was because Alistair’s brand of male hardness was complemented by his casual, almost sheepish demeanor. He didn’t seem to take himself too seriously, and that was reflected now as he sat there looking like he was still half asleep, a bowl resting in his hands that he kept lifting up, tipping, and slurping from.

  “What are you eating?” she asked incredulously. Granted, she was only a fledgling, but she had not been able to eat anything since her turning, and if she could swallow it and make it stay down, she would desperately love a piece of chocolate.

  “Blood,” he said.

  She could see the crimson stain on his lips now that he’d lowered the bowl. Sasha raised an eyebrow. He drank blood from a bowl like a six-year-old with the milk left after cereal?

  Alistair shrugged. “I grew up on porridge. I like a bowl at the start of my night. It’s a comfort thing.”

  Sasha caught herself before she smiled. He had the potential to be adorable, but she certainly did not want him to know that.

  “I see,” she said, smoothing his shirt over her stomach. “I borrowed another one of your T-shirts, I hope you don’t mind.” This time she had perused his T-shirt drawer selection a little more carefully and she had picked a black one—black seemed to be a theme with him—that said The Impalers, with a bloody stake in the corner of the “m.” It seemed a humorous irony and a gesture of defiance.

  “I don’t mind. Nice choice.” He grinned. “That’s my old band, The Impalers, and I’m kind of fond of that shirt, so can you try not to get staked while wearing it?”

  “I’ll try, but I cannot promise anything,” she said gravely, glad that he was enjoying her little gruesome joke.

  “That’s all I can ask for.” He took another sip from his blood bowl. “There are bags in the fridge if you need to feed.”

  “Thanks.” Sasha moved across the kitchen, wondering if he would comment on the fact that she was wearing his shoes again, too. And his necklace. She had seen it laying on his dresser and she had impulsively picked it up and put it on. The skull and crossbones on a thick silver chain had appealed to her, maybe because it wasn’t a choice for a fashionista, which is what Gregor had molded her into. She had been dressed in designer labels for years, the more expensive the better, and at one political fund-raiser, Sasha had been wearing almost a million dollars in diamonds.

  Alistair’s masculine and inexpensive necklace felt wonderful around her neck. A symbol of her freedom.

  “So what are the plans?” she asked, as she pulled open the refrigerator. It had been implied the night before that she would be staying with him, for a few days anyway, but she wasn’t sure what Alistair intended. She grabbed a bag of blood and closed the door again.

  “Well, Cassandra will be looking for you, and as we learned last night, you being alone leaves you vulnerable to attack. Jack suggested that the best way to deal is to be bold about it. If we put you in public, yet surrounded by me and my friends, no one will dare to hurt you or abduct you. They won’t be able to, because they won’t be able to get to you.”

  “I think I see the logic in that.” Even if the idea of everyone knowing where she was scared her. “Where will I be?”

  “The bar.” Alistair set his bowl down and hopped off the counter. “You’re my newest bartender, and as everyone learned last night, my new girlfriend.”

  Sasha punctured the blood bag, then pulled it back down off her lips. “I do not know anything about being a bartender.” Or being a girlfriend, for that matter.

  “You’ll learn. And everyone will groan and bitch and put up with it, because they’ll know it’s a charity job for my new girlfriend. And those who know the truth will understand. And protect you when I can’t.”

  Not sure what to say, Sasha just took a sip of blood and let it swish around her teeth and tongue. She was learning to like the taste. “Can you trust your friends?”

  He shot her a look, like he was offended, but he just said mildly, “Yes. With my life. And yours.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” It was her impulse to not believe him, to completely distrust, to call a plan that didn’t originate from her as unreliable and fraught with danger, but she had to learn to accept that her desire to control everything in her life came from her past. There were going to be times when she had to deal with other’s opinions or suggestions if she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life completely alone.

  Which she didn’t.

  Yes, she wanted her freedom. She wanted to change her name, cut her hair, start over with a new, nondesigner wardrobe.

  But she didn’t want to be alone for eternity.

  And while she didn’t exactly trust Alistair, he had given her no reason to distrust him either.

  So if he thought she could handle being a bartender, she was damn well going to prove him right.

  “When do I start?” she asked.

  Alistair grinned. “Now, Jenny. But first, let’s cut off those wrist irons.”

  SASHA was a quick study. Not that Alistair was really surprised. She was definitely a tenacious female, so he should have expected that she would pick up on bartending by the sheer force of her will.

  The back bar wasn’t busy, and most nights it was filled with about a half dozen vampires at a time. They were all friends and all simple, straightforward drinkers. They mostly wanted blood and alcohol, hold the ice. No one who came in to his bar would have the balls to request any sort of blender drink, and most drinks ordered had no more than three ingredients, so it was just a matter of showing Sasha around the taps and glasses.

  Yet he still felt a ridiculous amount of pride when, within an hour, she had learned how to use the register to open and close tabs and she was well on her way to memorizing what each guy drank regularly. Alistair tried to hang back and let her get her groove, which left him far too much time to just watch her, sitting on a stool in the corner. He definitely liked to see her behind his bar, her long legs carrying her back and forth, his Chucks squeaking on the floor as she pivoted in them. She had quick fingers, elegant and smooth as they slid glasses across the bar. Her lip curled down in a frown of concentration when she took and filled orders, but when she handed them over, she always smiled and made eye contact.

  The guys seemed to accept her, even if he caught a few curious glances. They were conducting their usual ribald, nonsensical conversations so that meant they were at least comfortable with her presence.

  Sam took his glass from Sasha and saluted her. “Here’s to sex, blood, and rock ’n’ roll.”

  It almost sounded like a test to Alistair, Sam’s way of seeing if Sasha fit in with them. Alistair was annoyed, and was about to answer Sam himself, but Sasha spoke up first.

  “Cheers to that,” she said mildly.

  Sam smiled, a flirty grin. “So where did Al find you? And can I steal you away from him?”

  Sasha gave a breezy smile in return. “Sorry, but there is really no chance of that.”

  He would have to agree with that. No one was taking her from him. She could walk away on her own if she wanted, though he wouldn’t like it, but no one was stealing her. Physically or emotionally, damn it. He wanted Sasha for himself.

  The admission had him reaching out for her as he spoke. “Get your own girl, Sam.”

  “I’m trying, man, but no luck. Thought it might be easier to just snag yours.”

  “Not going to happen, my friend.” Knowing Sam was joking, Alistair still took Sasha’s hand and tugged her back toward him.

  She tilted her head in question, but she came willingly. He pulled her onto his lap on the stool. Sasha stiffened, so he whispered in her ear, “You’re my girlfriend, Jenny, remember?”

  Looking at him over her shoulder
, she said, “None of your friends really believe that.”

  “The only one who knows the truth is Jack, so it’s better to play along. Especially when you never know who is in the front room of the bar watching.”

  Their heads were close together, her full mouth deliciously close to his. She shifted on his lap, her small and firm ass resting nicely on his thighs.

  “That sounds like a justification for your behavior,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew exactly what she meant.

  “You just want me to sit on your lap, do you not?”

  No shit. And he wasn’t at all surprised she had him figured out. Sasha was smart and very observant.

  “Well, there’s no denying I want you on my lap.” Alistair slid his hands around her waist to emphasize his point. “But I want you safe first and foremost. If I can have both, that just makes me all the happier.”

  “It is false and manipulative,” she said.

  She had a rich, sensual voice, and it did pleasant things to his body. Like made it harden in strategic places.

  “It’s not manipulative or false because I’m being totally honest with you. I’m not denying I want you on my lap but telling you straight-up, yes, I want you right here—with me, on me, close to me, your body against mine.”

  Her eyes widened. “I do not want this.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Alistair tipped his head, shifted in closer, moving his lips until they were almost touching hers. She didn’t back away. He kissed her, softly, quickly, and retreated.

  They stared at each other, Sasha looking angry, uncertain, aroused. Or maybe the latter was wishful thinking on his part. Alistair didn’t want to push, didn’t want to risk sending her running. He was patient. He could take this slow. She could sit on his lap all damn night as far as he was concerned, and they’d get past any reticence eventually.

  Of course, they only had a few nights, then Sasha would probably leave New Orleans forever. Maybe he should go for it, push a little bit, show her that not all men were like her dead husband.