Love Bites

by Annabelle Costa

  “Starfire,” he replies instantly.

  “Really?” I laugh. “I would have taken you as more of a Raven kind of guy.”

  “Starfire is a redhead,” he points out. “You know I love redheads.”

  I smile. “Yes, you mentioned that.”

  He hesitates for a moment, then blurts out, “The first girl I ever fell in love with was a redhead.”

  I blink in surprise. I didn’t expect him to say something like that.

  “Sorry.” Hunter seems almost surprised at himself. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not?”

  His smile is crooked this time. “Because, you know, former loves are more of a third-date conversation. Anyway, it was… a very, very long time ago. And I was a different person then.”

  His brow creases and for a minute, he’s gone, lost in the memory of a redhead he once loved. I wish I could relate. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved a man before. Not really. I’ve said it, but looking back, I can’t say I ever really meant it.

  I want to ask Hunter more about this redhead, but like he said, it’s more of a third-date conversation. And as the night goes on, I’m becoming more confident we’ll get there.

  Hunter pays the check at the restaurant, actually laughing at my attempts to at least chip in for the tip. “I’d rather throw your money off the roof, Brooke. I’m paying.” Then he leads me back to his Audi, where he takes off so fast I’m certain he’s left skid marks on the pavement.

  “Where are we going now?” I ask him, since we don’t seem to be headed in the direction of my apartment.

  “Fireworks,” he says.

  I gasp. “No way.”

  “Way.”

  And now we’re headed for Battery Park City. When he pulls over by the park, I can’t help but think of Sydney and how she’d had her throat slit in a park.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him.

  “Down to the river.”

  I feel a shiver go through me. I barely know Hunter. Is it really a good idea to be alone with him late at night, in a deserted park, right by the river? Isn’t that just a recipe for trouble?

  Hunter pulls open the passenger side door like a gentleman and holds out his hand to help me out of the car. Despite the fact that my brain is screaming at me “BE CAREFUL! YOU DON’T KNOW THIS MAN,” I feel myself lifting my legs out of the vehicle and allowing him to pull me to my feet in that same hypnotic way in which I recited my address for him yesterday.

  I want to go with him. I want to follow him. I’ll follow him anywhere. I’ll do anything he wants me to do.

  He puts his hand lightly on my back and I shiver, but I allow him to guide me toward the Hudson River. I know he’s claiming there will be fireworks, but it still seems hard to believe. Then again, he’s demonstrated during this date that he has tremendous wealth and influence. If anyone can make it happen, it’s him. There’s something about Hunter that’s different from anyone I’ve ever met.

  We end up at yet another railing, now on the edge of a river rather than a seven-story drop. Actually, if I had a choice between falling off a building and falling into the Hudson River, it would be a tough call. The Hudson River is beyond disgusting. I think it would burn my skin off.

  God, why did I come here with him? I hadn’t meant to do it. But when he held out his hand to me, it was like I couldn’t say no. I felt like I was in a trance. How does this keep happening? And now…

  But Hunter won’t hurt me. He likes cookies and cream ice cream and Starfire.

  “So are there really going to be fireworks?” I ask him, trying to calm the tremor in my voice. “Or did you lure me here to murder me?”

  A smile plays on his lips. “What do you think?”

  “Still not entirely sure.”

  “You seem awfully calm,” he notes, “for a woman who thinks she’s about to be murdered.”

  “My heart is pounding.”

  “Is it?” He reaches out his hand and gently presses his fingers against my neck, to where my carotid artery pulses. In all my years of dating, I can honestly say that a man has never once taken my pulse before. But it’s actually bizarrely sexy. “You’re right. Your pulse is racing.”

  “See? I told you so.”

  His dark eyes meet mine and I feel a jolt of electricity go through me. “I think your heart is racing because you’re about to get the best kiss of your life.”

  I shake my head at him. “Not unless I get the fireworks you promised.”

  “A woman of principles. I like it.” He nods out at the water. “Okay, I want to you to look out there…”

  No way. No. Way.

  This man is not really managing to produce an entire fireworks display over the Hudson River with only a two hours’ notice. If he can do that, he’d be better than Bruce Wayne. He’d be magic.

  I squint out into the darkness, waiting for the flash of light to appear. Then I hear the bang and a flash of red light and that’s when I see Hunter is holding up his cell phone. He’s got a firework display playing on YouTube.

  “That’s cheating!” I complain.

  “Nuh uh,” Hunter says with a grin that glows in the light of his cell phone. “All you said was you wanted me to show you fireworks. I have shown you fireworks.”

  “Cheating,” I say again, although I’m smiling.

  He takes a step closer to me. “I was just taking advantage of a loophole.”

  “How come you dragged me all the way to the river then?”

  His smile broadens. “Atmosphere.”

  I laugh—I can’t help it. Even though I was excited by the idea of getting to see some real fireworks tonight, the truth is that I’m glad he couldn’t actually produce them. The idea of dating a guy who could make real fireworks appear with less than two hours’ notice is a little intimidating. I look back at his cell phone, which is glowing purple now.

  “So what do you say?” Hunter presses me. “Do I get my kiss?”

  I suppose he gets bonus points for creativity. Plus I’ve been dying to kiss this guy all night.

  I tilt my head toward him and he slowly lowers his lips onto mine. His mouth is warm and his breath tastes like the expensive wine we’d been drinking. He slips me only the slightest hint of tongue—just enough tongue to leave me wanting more tongue.

  Is it the best kiss I’ve ever had?

  I’m not sure. But it’s definitely up there. Top three, for sure.

  When our lips part, Hunter is gazing into my eyes. “You smell so good,” he breathes.

  I smile. I used the new perfume Gabby bought me for my birthday tonight that she swore made men go out of their minds. Looks like it works.

  “Your scent is intoxicating,” he adds.

  My scent is intoxicating? What does that mean? I want to smell good, but I’m not sure how I feel about having a “scent.” I’m not a freaking deer.

  But at least it was a positive comment. He didn’t tell me I had BO or anything.

  “I want to kiss you again,” Hunter whispers in my ear.

  So I let him.

  Chapter 10: Tom Blake

  May, 1906

  On Sunday afternoons, I call on Mary. We generally sit on the porch together and talk or sometimes hold hands. Her mother can see us from the window, so there’s no funny business. And of course, I live in fear of Sheriff Eckley coming home and seeing me doing something to his daughter that he doesn’t like.

  What will the sheriff do to me if he catches me kissing his daughter? I don’t want to know. Depriving me of the privilege of marrying her would be punishment enough.

  Today Mary is in a foul mood. Usually she’s bubbling over with conversation, but today she simply sits there, glaring at the road. I try to take her hand, but she yanks it away. I wonder what I have done to upset her.

  “Is everything all right?” I finally venture.

  Mary swivels her head to look at me. “Papa has informed me that I will not be returning to school in the fall.”

&
nbsp; I blink in surprise. “Why not?”

  “He says I’ve had enough schooling for a girl,” she snorts. “They need my help with chores and with the little ones. Can’t spare me anymore.”

  I know how much Mary loves school. She is passionate about learning, and truth be told, one of the best students in the class. But it’s no surprise that she won’t be finishing high school. Only a small number in our town do. She is one of the few girls left in our class—many quit after eighth grade and still more leave every year to get married.

  “I’m sorry, Mary,” I say. “I wish you could go instead of me. I don’t have much use for another year of school—not in my line of work.”

  Mary looks at me curiously. “And what line of work is that?”

  “Well…” I shrug. “You know I’ve been apprenticing with Mr. Sullivan.”

  She cocks her head at me. “You really want to be a butcher?”

  I frown. “Yes. I do.”

  Her cheeks redden and she touches my hand. “I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t mean it like that. I just… you are the smartest boy in the whole town. You think I don’t notice? You could be… you could be mayor, you know? Or… or governor.”

  I raise my eyebrows, trying not to seem as skeptical as I feel. “Can I really?”

  “Sure.” Mary nods vigorously. “Why, if you had the right help, I bet you could be President!”

  This time, I have to laugh. “I think President Roosevelt is doing just fine, thank you very much.”

  “Well, I’m not talking about now.” She clucks her tongue. “But someday, after you finish high school. And then go to college, of course…”

  “College?”

  “Well, why not?” Her green eyes are full of fiery determination. She never looks so beautiful as when she believes in me in a way that nobody else can. “Why can’t you be President? You’re smart enough. I know from class that you’re a good speaker. You’re the handsomest boy in the whole town…”

  My cheeks burn. “Mary…”

  “Well, you are,” she insists. She gives my hand a squeeze. “Now all you need is the right woman by your side. And then you’ll be all set.”

  I shake my head at her. “You think a little too much of me.”

  “You don’t think enough of yourself.” She looks up at me, and I can see there is nothing teasing in those green eyes. “Think about it—President Thomas Blake. Has a good ring to it, doesn’t it?”

  I won’t lie. Mary’s faith in me is more than flattering—it is exciting. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I really can be more than just the town butcher. Maybe I can go to college. With a woman like Mary by my side, it sometimes feels like anything is possible for me.

  Except I know in my heart it isn’t really possible. I can’t do all the wonderful things Mary is saying. Because there are things about me that Mary doesn’t know.

  She doesn’t know that the only place I ever feel truly happy is inside Mr. Sullivan’s butcher shop.

  She doesn’t know that at least once or twice a week, I whirl around as fast as I can, trying to catch a glimpse of the man I’m certain has been following me.

  She doesn’t know I’ve been having dreams where I swing the blade of an axe into my father’s chest, then wake up covered in cold sweat.

  “Kiss me, Tom,” Mary whispers urgently. “Mama’s gone to the kitchen and she can’t see. Nobody can see us. Kiss me.”

  She doesn’t know that when I kiss her tonight for the first time, I get that same sick feeling there is something else I want to do to her.

  She doesn’t know anything.

  And I don’t intend for her to find out.

  July, 1906

  I’ve been working for Mr. Sullivan long enough that he trusts me to cure meat on my own. Curing meat is a necessity, as we can’t keep it cold enough in his cooler to store it for long periods, especially now that it’s summer. Mr. Sullivan tells me rumors of refrigerated train cars that can bring fresh meat more regularly, but for now, this is the way we do things.

  Mr. Sullivan had to take off early today and he left me with two fresh whole pigs that were slaughtered very recently. He once explained to me that water is what causes meat to spoil—if you want a piece of meat to last without decaying, all the water has to be drawn out of it. We execute this task with a mixture of salt and saltpeter. The salt draws out the moisture from the meat, and the saltpeter preserves it, allowing it to retain its pink color. Sometimes brown sugar is added as well to give the meat more sweetness.

  The back room has a bucket of salt and saltpeter—enough to coat every inch of these two pigs. I’ll likely need at least twenty-five pounds of the mixture. It’s a difficult job that must be done in a bucket with a hole at the bottom so the liquor of unusable liquid drawn from the meat can flow to the floor. To do it right takes me an hour per animal, but I’m up for the task.

  After the animal is properly salted, it sits for six weeks in the salting tub for all the liquid to be drawn out. We already have many animals in various stages of salting—Mr. Sullivan tags them so we can keep track. If the salting is not done for long enough, we risk decay.

  After the salting is finished, we bring the meat to the smoking house. This is a shed out back where we hang the meat over a fire made of green wood or apple wood—Mr. Sullivan prefers apple wood because it gives the meat a sweeter taste. The point of the fire is to smoke the meat rather than cook it, so we let it burn low at all times. Sometimes it goes out, but that’s no bother. I just get the fire going again and resume the smoking process.

  Meat sits in the smoking house for about two weeks. After that, we bring it into the store to hang and sell. Meat that’s been salt-cured can last for years and stay just as pink as the day it was slaughtered.

  However, before starting the salting process, I have to bleed these pigs dry best I can. I tie them by their feet from the hooks attached to the ceiling, one hanging over each bucket. I take a butcher knife and slit the first pig’s throat from ear to ear.

  It has likely been dead for at least an hour, but the flow of blood is still considerable and nearly knocks me off my feet. I’m sure that fresh blood of an animal must have some smell to other people, but to me, it’s nearly overwhelming. I wish I could describe it but I can’t. It makes me want to… to claw at the dead pig and rip through the skin with my teeth.

  Yes, I know that sounds crazy. I would, of course, never do such a thing. I’m in my right mind. But as I look up at the first pig, still dripping blood from its neck, I know that I have to do something to quiet this strange craving I’m having.

  Before I can think twice about it, I grab an empty glass from the shelf. I position it below the pig where most of the blood seemed to be dripping. I watch in fascination as the cup gradually fills with dark red liquid. My right hand holding the glass won’t stop shaking.

  When the flow slows to a halt a minute later, I’m left with a glass nearly filled with pig’s blood. I slosh it around the edges of the glass. It feels warm in my hand. Mr. Sullivan doesn’t generally save the blood of animals—he says nobody buys it frequently enough and it always spoils in the cooler. That means if the blood disappears, he’ll never know or care.

  I want this blood.

  So badly.

  I lift the cup to my lips, my hand shaking so much that I nearly hit my nose instead. I tilt the cup back, and a second later, the warm liquid hits my throat. And it is…

  Incredible.

  Every cell in my body is suddenly at attention. I feel like I can hoist both the pigs off their hooks at once and juggle them in the air. I feel like I can run a hundred miles. Faster than any train. I feel like I can do absolutely anything.

  “Hello? Is anyone back there?”

  The voice startles me so much that my hand jerks, spilling the remains of the blood on my white apron. For a moment, I feel a flash of anger so intense that I nearly hurl the glass across the room, where it would have shattered into a million pieces. But then I remember myself. I’m in M
r. Sullivan’s shop. He is gone for the day and he left me in charge. If I do anything wrong, I’ll lose this job.

  I can’t lose this job.

  “Coming!” I call out.

  I wipe my hands on my apron and hurry out to the front. My heart quickens when I see who my customer is: Sheriff William Eckley. Mary’s father.

  “Tom!” He sounds surprised to see me, but not entirely displeased. “I heard you were working here. Fred isn’t around?”

  “Mr. Sullivan’s gone for the rest of the day,” I explain. “He left me in charge. What can I get for you?”

  Sheriff Eckley hesitates. He has a strange look on his face that makes me uneasy.

  “Tom,” he finally says, “you’ve got blood on you.”

  “Right.” I wipe my hands again on my blood-splattered apron. “I was just butchering a pig in the back.”

  He frowns. “It’s on your face.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. I touch my face, wishing there were a mirror in the shop. I do my best attempt to wipe the blood off my skin. “I’ll be honest, sir. I’m a beginner.”

  “I’ll say,” the sheriff comments.

  Oh God.

  “I’ll take one of the chickens you got back there,” Sheriff Eckley finally says.

  I nod and turn to pull down one of the preserved chickens that is hanging from a hook behind me. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes three tries for me to get it down. I nearly drop the bird while trying to get it on the scale.

  “Mrs. Eckley wanted me to invite you to dinner if I see you,” the sheriff says as I shakily wrap up the chicken for him. He doesn’t sound sure of himself as he extends the invitation, like he is doing it because he has to, but he’d really rather not invite me. I can’t blame him. “This Friday night.”

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “Mary will be glad to see you,” he adds. “I know she misses you when school is out.”

  “I miss her too,” I say, then look away as my cheeks grow warm. “I guess I won’t be seeing her much next year.”