Love Bites

by Annabelle Costa

  “Jamie?” I say. “It’s Brooke.”

  “I know,” he says. He doesn’t sound angry, so that’s a plus. “Your number is in my phone, remember? Caller ID.”

  “Right,” I mumble. “How are you doing?”

  “Uh, fine.” There’s a pause on the other line. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay…”

  God, I can’t think of a tactful way to ask him to help me with my computer.

  “Brooke?” he says.

  “Uh huh?”

  “Is your computer broken?”

  My cheeks flush. “Um, yeah. Do you think you could…?”

  He laughs on the other line. “Yeah, sure. I’ll come up.”

  Five minutes later, he’s knocking on my door. I open up for him, feeling instant relief at the sight of his kind blue eyes. His hair is a little mussed, like he just got out of bed, and he looks really cute right now. No, not just cute—actually, pretty sexy. He smiles crookedly at me and I’m so happy he’s smiling at me again that I throw my arms around him.

  “Whoa,” Jamie says, adjusting his grip on his cane and grabbing the doorframe with his other hand. “Calm down, Brooke. I haven’t even fixed it yet.”

  I pull away from him, feeling mildly embarrassed. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

  He glances at my laptop screen. “So what’s the problem? Were you downloading porn again?”

  “No.” I roll my eyes. Not that I haven’t ever downloaded porn—come on, everyone does it. “I clicked on a link in an email and… now this is happening. Like, a million windows keep opening.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Jamie says as he ungracefully plops down in the chair in front of my desk. “Are you still using Internet Explorer? Didn’t I tell you to use Firefox? It’s much more secure. I even downloaded it for you.”

  “Maybe,” I say vaguely.

  “So do I need to delete Explorer for you to stop using it?”

  “Apparently.”

  He sighs, but he’s chuckling to himself. I watch him go to work on my laptop, running some sort of antivirus program. He always knows what to do. I’ve never given him a computer problem he couldn’t fix.

  “How’d you learn to be so good with computers?” I ask him as I pull up a chair next to him.

  He shrugs. “Dunno. My mom bought me a computer when I was in third grade and I just really got into it.”

  “My mom bought me a guinea pig when I was in third grade.”

  He grins at me. “How’d that work out for you?”

  “Awful. She peed on everything.” I cringe at the memory. “Thanks for coming up so fast. I really appreciate it.”

  “Of course,” he says, his eyes back on the computer screen. “You know I always help you. Anyway, I felt bad about being a jerk to you before. I’m sorry about that.”

  I bite my lip. “You weren’t a jerk.”

  “Yeah, I was,” he snorts.

  “Not really.”

  He rolls his eyes. “I was. Can you let me apologize?”

  I smile. “Okay, fine.”

  “It was just…” He turns away from the screen to look at me. “The funeral and the bar mitzvah and… I don’t know. It was messing with my head. I acted like a dumbass.”

  I hold my thumb and my forefinger about a centimeter apart. “A little.”

  “I’m just glad you set me straight,” he says. “I mean, your friendship is really important to me and I wouldn’t want to mess that up.” He ducks his head down as he smiles. “Also, things are going pretty good now with Gabby, so…”

  That sick feeling in my stomach again. Jamie and Gabby.

  “I always thought you didn’t like her,” I say.

  “Are you kidding me?” He grins. “She’s cute, she’s clever… she’s funny as hell.”

  “She wears a garlic clove necklace.”

  He laughs out loud. “Yeah, that’s true. But she’s agreed to take it off if the smell gets too overpowering.”

  I notice the fond expression on his face when he talks about Gabby. He really does like her. If there was ever a chance for me and Jamie, it’s slipping through my fingers as we speak. I can see Gabby getting serious with Jamie. What if they move in together? What if they get married, for God’s sake?

  “Anyway,” Jamie says, “I hear things are getting hot and heavy with you and that new guy. According to Gabby, anyway.”

  I force a smile. “Yeah, kind of. I guess so.”

  “Gabby says he’s super rich and super handsome,” he says.

  “Does she?”

  “She does.” He grins. “She wants to double date with you guys, although I’m worried she’s going to fall for him or something, if he’s really that great.”

  “I don’t think you need to worry,” I mumble.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  I swivel my eyes back to the laptop screen. I don’t really want to talk about Hunter right now. “How’s my computer doing?”

  “Just wiping the virus you downloaded,” he says. “Should be done soon. Then I’m deleting Explorer because you obviously can’t be trusted with it.”

  I nod soberly. “It’s for the best.”

  He pushes his chair back slightly from my desk so he can face me. “I’m glad you called, Brooke. I missed you.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  I look into Jamie’s eyes and feel my heart leap in my chest. Now that Hunter isn’t here with his mesmerizing smile, I realize I don’t have much desire to go out with him tonight. The truth is that the man in front of me is much more appealing to me. Jamie’s a good man—I know his soul.

  I swallow hard. I want to kiss Jamie. After a few weeks apart, I’ve realized that Jamie is hard to live without. And not just as a friend. I want more than friendship with him. I made a huge mistake choosing Hunter over him that night. Is it too late to fix my mistake?

  Kiss me, Jamie. Just do it.

  I see the hesitation in his eyes and I wonder if he’s considering it. He’s dating Gabby, but even though he claims it’s going well, it can’t be that serious yet. We’ve known each other three years. If he kissed me, it wouldn’t even be cheating. Not really.

  Kiss me!

  But then he turns his eyes back to the computer. “Looks like it’s done,” he mumbles.

  I’ve lost him to her.

  It’s official.

  Chapter 16: Tom Blake

  April, 1907

  Ma took a train up north three days ago to visit her sister, so it is supposed to be just me and George for about a week until she comes back. Today’s Sunday, so I go to church with Mary and her family in the morning. George goes to church when my mother makes him, but when she’s not around, he won’t go. “I don’t believe in that nonsense,” he always says.

  I never liked going to church as a child. I found it boring, and I don’t like the itchy suit Ma makes me wear. I always tried to avoid it, but Ma said I’d go to hell if I didn’t go. So I went.

  I still don’t like going to church. But lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about hell. The thoughts I’ve been having when I’m around the freshly killed animals in the butcher shop really scare me. Mr. Sullivan trusts me now, but I don’t know what he’d think if he knew the blood I siphon from the animals whenever I can, and gulp down quickly before I can be caught. I know I need to stop doing this. I must stop.

  And that’s why I’m going to church this morning.

  Mary walks beside me, behind the rest of the family. We don’t hold hands because her parents are just ahead of us, but I’m itching to touch her. She has on a worn pink dress with frayed sleeves that looks like it will unravel if I pulled on a single loose thread. When she’s my wife, I’ll be sure to buy her enough fabric to make herself two brand new dresses right away. I’ll work seven days a week at Sullivan’s to pay for it if I have to.

  “I loved the essay you read in class on Friday,” Mary says. Her shoulder brushes against mine just enough to make my heart speed up.


  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Papa says he thinks they need to ban all liquor,” she adds. “But I agree with what you said on Friday. This is America and people should be allowed to drink what they want. And anyway, if people want it badly enough, like you said, they’ll find a way to get it, won’t they?”

  “If someone wants something bad enough,” I say, “there’s always a way to get it.”

  Mary smiles at me. “I have to confess I’ve never had a drink before. Papa doesn’t have any liquor in the house.”

  “Me either,” I admit.

  “Really?” She looks surprised. “Your father is… well, he drinks quite a bit, doesn’t he? He must have loads of it stashed away in your home.”

  I shrug. “I don’t have any interest in trying it.”

  That is true. George keeps many bottles of liquor in the house, stashed in a cabinet in our parlor, but I never touch them. Partially because he would have whupped me with his belt till I bled if ever caught me, but also because I just never had any interest. There is something else I crave much more strongly.

  “Your essay got everyone so steamed up,” Mary says. She sets her bright green eyes on me. “You’re such a powerful speaker, Tom. I’m telling you—you could do great things. President Thomas Blake.”

  Tonight at dinner, Mary’s voice is running through my head as George and I eat together. We are eating the cold meat and vegetables that Ma has left behind for us, and George keeps his head down, staring at the table, shoveling bites into his mouth without even looking at me. He already smells like whiskey, and I’m sure that when he finishes his food, he’ll head over to the saloon for the rest of the night.

  “We need more meat, boy,” George grumbles as he stuffs the last of it into his mouth. “You still working for Sullivan?”

  “Yes,” I say. “In fact, he actually… he offered me full time work next year, after I finish school.”

  George looks me over with his beady little eyes. “You’ll pay me rent then to live here.”

  “Actually,” I say, “I’m thinking I’ll get a place of my own. With… with Mary Eckley. She and I will be married.”

  He snorts. “You really going to marry Bill Eckley’s pug-ugly redheaded daughter? I hope he’s going to pay you to take that one off his hands.”

  I stare at him, my cheeks growing hot.

  “You’re nothing great yourself, but you can do a hell of a lot better than her,” he goes on. “Real ugly and too smart. Worst combination there is. You got to get one that’s pretty and dumb. Like your mama. She’s a real dilly.”

  My right hand balls into a fist so tight that it hurts. He has to see how angry he’s getting me, but he doesn’t care.

  “’Course,” George says, “I had to train ol’ Meg. Even she mouthed off sometimes at first, but now I got her trained real good. Now she knows what will happen to her if she does something I don’t like.” He grins at me with his rotted yellow teeth. “And you know too, don’t you, boy? Still got that scar on your hand?”

  “Don’t talk about my mother that way,” I say through my teeth. “And don’t you ever talk about Mary Eckley that way.”

  He bursts into loud laughter like I just said the funniest thing he’d ever hear. “Get used to it, boy. You’re going to hear a lot meaner stuff about that girl if you go and marry her.”

  I stand up so abruptly that it knocks over my chair, my right fist now raised in the air. George stands up too, turning to face me head on. He has at least three inches on me and a good fifty pounds. But I don’t flinch. I’m not afraid of him.

  “You haven’t had a proper beating in a long time,” he muses. “Too long, looks like.”

  “We’ll see.”

  His eyes fill with amusement. “You think you can get the better of me? You sure think a lot of yourself—just like your old man. You look like him too. Spitting image.”

  His words weaken my resolve. “You… you knew my father?”

  “Of course!” he barks. “We all knew Stephen. Came into town, charmed all the ladies, told them lies to get them to sneak off with him.” He shakes his head. “But he liked your mama best because she was the prettiest. I warned her. Told her he was no good. Then she came crying to me when he got her in trouble and took off.”

  I stare at him, trying to imagine how my mother allowed herself to get in that situation. Despite what he said about her, my mother is a smart woman. My father must have really been something.

  “It could have been worse though,” he says. “Stephen did worse things to other girls. Well, nobody could prove it. But we all knew.”

  My stomach sinks. “What kinds of things?”

  But George doesn’t answer my question. He’s on a roll. “Your mama would have been branded a whore if I hadn’t married her. I saved her. And what do I get? She couldn’t seem to have any more children and I’m stuck with you. Her bastard.”

  I watch as he undoes the buckle on his belt. I know what’s coming, what he plans to do. But I’m too old for that. He isn’t going to lay a finger on me. Not one finger on me or my mother ever again.

  I grab the knife I’d been using to cut the meat from the table. I grip it in my right hand so George can see it plainly. He knows I’m not going to just take a whupping. Not anymore.

  But he just laughs, unperturbed. “What are you going to do with that, boy?”

  I don’t reply. “You’re never going to hit my mother again. You hear me?”

  “You go and get yourself a shotgun,” he says. “Then maybe you’d be a match for me. Maybe.”

  Mr. Sullivan taught me how to sharpen knives. After church today, I sharpened the dull blades on all the knives in our kitchen. At the time, I was doing it because I had a few extra hours on my hands. But maybe I knew this moment was coming.

  “You think you’re going to cut me, boy?” George raises his eyebrows at me. “Well, go and do it.”

  I lunge with the knife, but George is ready for me. He makes a grab for my right wrist, but I overpower him easily. I can see the surprise on his face when he realizes that I’m now stronger than he is. I topple an end table and the vase resting on it crashes to the floor as I shove my stepfather backwards. He is bigger than me and heavier than me, but his efforts to overpower me feel flimsy. Within seconds, I have restrained him against the wall, the sharp blade of our kitchen knife at his throat.

  “Tom,” he gasps. His face is almost purple and his brown eyes are full of fear. “What are you doing?”

  I let the edge of the knife dig into his throat, just enough that blood oozes out.

  “I’m your father,” he manages. “Without me, you’d have nothing. You’d be nothing.”

  I close my eyes for a moment, conjuring up the image of my mother’s battered face. “You are nothing, George.”

  He stands there, gasping for air. This is what I have wanted for a very long time—to watch this man squirm. Now I have him right where I want him. He knows if he beats my mother, he will have me to deal with. I can let him go now.

  Except then I hear that voice, the one haunting me for almost a year now. I hear it as loud as ever before, a whisper directly in my ear:

  Cut his throat, Tom.

  In one moment, I’m letting him go. In the next, my hand is digging the blade into his neck, slitting his throat from ear to ear. There’s a split-second shock on his face before he drops to the ground, gushing blood all over our wooden floorboards. He makes one last gasp for air and bubbles of blood spurt from his lips.

  “Oh my God.” I let the knife clatter to the floor. I cover my mouth, backing away from his body. “Oh my God…”

  “What are you doing?” The voice I heard before is no longer a whisper. It is now loud and clear. “After all this time, you’re just going to let him bleed all over the floor? You’re wasting it, you know.”

  I whirl around, expecting to see the same nothing I’ve been seeing for the last year. But instead, I see a man. An ordinary-looking man—handsome, yes,
but still very much a man. He appears in his mid-twenties, and he has a shock of black hair and dark, penetrating eyes that make it hard to see his pupils. It’s like looking into a mirror ten years in the future.

  “Who are you?” I demand to know.

  “Never mind that,” the man says irritably. “Drink the blood now, before you have to lick it off the floorboards or else go back to drinking from a pig.”

  My eyes widen. He knows about the pigs? “How do you…?”

  Before I can get out the sentence, the man all but shoves me in the direction of George Blake’s body. “Drink!” he snaps at me.

  In the end, he nearly has to hold me down. He pushes me to my knees and presses his hand against the back of my head until my lips are flush with George’s throat. I would never have done it on my own, but when I’m inches away, the urge is overpowering.

  For the first time, I realize how poor a substitute animal blood is for what I really want. If pig’s blood makes me feel like I can run, this makes me feel like I can fly. I have never been certain if I believed in God, but drinking this makes me feel like I am God.

  I don’t know how long I drink. I lose all track of time, my face buried in my stepfather’s neck. But when the flow ebbs, I finally realize what I’m doing. The euphoria of drinking fades and I’m left with an increasingly ill feeling.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I tell the man standing over me.

  I retch, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head at me. “I know it’s your first time but try not to vomit. It’s such a waste.”

  I manage to sit up on the floor, clutching my head in my hands. I can’t believe what has just happened. It feels like some sort of horrible dream. I did not just kill George Blake. I did not slit his throat. I did not just drink the blood gushing from his neck. In five minutes, I will wake up and all will be well.

  Except I don’t seem to be waking up.

  I look up at the man standing over me. I can see now that he is wearing a cloak buttoned around his neck that is as dark as his hair. He is frowning at me, a crease between his eyebrows.