Satisfaction of an emotional kind had eluded him for too long, and as for the physical…
His recent interlude with a vampire elder had taught him a thing or two about physical satisfaction. Despite how good it had been with the beautiful and powerful Stacia, it had occurred to him too quickly in the relationship that there was something lacking.
Something he hadn’t experienced since…
He drove thoughts of her away as the young woman eased up onto her toes, slipped an arm around his neck and drew his head near. She whispered into his ear, “Would you like to go somewhere more private?”
She inclined her head in the direction of the Blood Bank’s back rooms and he knew just what she wanted—a quick tryst and maybe even some painful play with the toys Foley kept in the rooms for his more daring clientele.
He smiled, slipped his hand into hers and quickly strode toward the private rooms, intending to fulfill the young woman’s needs and his own.
But even as he did so, memories sprang up of the last young blonde he had taken into that area. Of the joy and pain that tryst had brought.
He cursed beneath his breath as all desire fled.
Chapter 2
He had been reduced to a stalker guy, Blake thought as he hid in the shadows of the alley behind Otro Mundo, waiting for her to emerge.
He had been visiting that spot for nearly two months now, ever since the human wannabes had opened their posh restaurant.
He refused to admit that inside of him lurked a little of the wannabe, especially as he rubbed his full belly. The blonde earlier that evening had been a splendid dining experience, but he still needed more.
Far more than what he would find in the fancy-ass restaurant Diego and Ryder had opened. A part of him resented them—his two kind-of-friends. “Kind-of-friends” because he was only included in their circle when they needed something.
Nothing new. He had been an outsider most of his life. He should have been used to being on the fringe, and yet it gnawed at his gut, as did their philosophy of striving to maintain their humanity rather than giving in to their demons.
As he stood behind the restaurant, he reminded himself that he was a vampire and damned proud of it. He had no need of humanity with all the attendant emotions, especially love.
Love only complicated the whole undead-demon gig.
He told himself that over and over again, until she emerged from the back door of the restaurant and sat on the first step of the landing leading down into the alley.
Meghan’s blond hair glistened beneath the light of a bright new moon. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to ward off the chill of the early spring night. Not that vamps like them really felt the cold. The gesture was probably a lingering human habit.
Meghan had been a vamp for only about four years now. Actually three years, eleven months and ten days, but who was counting? Blake realized that besides Meghan, he would be the one to know.
He had turned her, after all.
Because of that, the connection between them told him that she was deeply troubled. Her hands had been shaking as she had wrapped them around the flesh of her upper arms, and from within her, disquiet radiated out to him, beating against his vampire senses, strumming the bond between a sire and the one he had turned.
Meghan picked up her head and stared his way, finally registering his presence. The unease that had bathed her soul moments earlier vanished and was replaced by her typical anger toward him. He had wondered more than once if she could ever forgive him for siring her, but her continued rage made him doubt that anything other than discord was possible between them.
Straightening from where he was leaning against the brick wall, he jerked on his black leather jacket and told himself to stop pining after the young chit.
The forever-young chit, thanks to him.
Guilt tore into him before he firmly shoved it aside.
For one and half centuries he had survived alone, and there was no reason he couldn’t do the same for the next one and half centuries.
As he stepped away from the shadows, the chains on his jacket scraped across the rough brick, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet night.
Meghan rose from the stoop as he made himself visible, her body tense and seemingly poised for flight. But he wasn’t about to let her run away.
Blake stood at the mouth of the service alley for the restaurant, resplendent in all his punk glory. His black leather jacket strained against the broad width of his shoulders. Beneath the jacket, a black shirt encased the lean muscles of his upper body while wickedly tight jeans hugged the perfection of his long muscled legs.
He wasn’t tall, but he had amazing legs. Come to think of it, most of him was fairly magnificent, which was what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.
She had fallen for the sexy, dimpled grin and the crystalline blue gaze. Not to mention all that perfectly defined muscle.
Plus, he had made her laugh with his insolent charm and self-confidence. That had been her ultimate downfall—that he could make her laugh. If she had learned one thing from her parents, it was that laughter lasted long after the passion of youth had fled.
But not even Blake could make her laugh tonight, Meghan thought, as she looked up to the window of the private dining room that held the grisly remains of the two dead vampires.
Smeared blood marred what had once been the pristine glass of the window. In her mind flashed the sight of their bodies writhing together and the sound of the sick sucking noises they had made before death forever stilled them.
Blake tracked her gaze and as he noted the sight, worry slipped into his normally cocky features. He took a step toward her but then stopped, clearly unsure of his reception, as well he should be.
She’d had more than a taste of Blake and was sure she didn’t want yet another.
For all his charm, he wasn’t trustworthy.
She had learned that the hard way and had no intention of dealing with him yet again. She rose from the step and walked toward him, her pace brisk.
Blake watched as Meghan approached, anger evident in every short and determined stride.
He could tell that much. She was not only upset by whatever had happened up in that room with the blood-smeared window, she was mad. He didn’t need to ask if she was pissed off at him.
She was always pissed off at him.
“What are you doing here?” She stopped sharply before him and jammed her hands onto her hips. The motion strained the fabric of the white chef’s jacket covering her ample breasts.
“Out for a stroll. And you, love?” He jerked his head in the direction of the bloodied window. “Having a bit of fun?”
She slapped him hard, rocking his head back with the strength of the blow, surprising him with the force of her vehemence.
“Don’t you respect anything?”
He rubbed his jaw and snorted. “’Course I do, love. Motherhood, apple pie and Chevrolet.”
Meghan whipped her hand forward to strike him again, but he snagged it midslap.
“Don’t,” he said, then immediately added in a softer tone, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start off on the wrong foot.”
“Wrong is all we ever do, Blake. Don’t you get that by now?” She jerked her wrist out of his grasp and rubbed it, as if to wipe away something dirty.
Irritation flared up in him, but he tamped it down. There had already been too much violence and hostility between them, although there had been other things as well. Good things.
“We managed to do some things right.”
She sighed roughly and smoothed back a strand of hair that had escaped her French braid. “Why are you here, Blake? Why tonight?”
He didn’t want to admit that the cute blond chit earlier that night had satisfied one hunger but whetted another. With a negligent shrug, he said, “Heard a rumor that Diego and Ryder were still hiring.”
“As if you know what it is to earn an honest day’s wage.”
He arched a brow and disdainfully raked his gaze over the chef’s attire she wore. “Want to make a little wager, love?”
She snorted and crossed her arms again. Leaning forward slightly in challenge, she said, “A wager? With you?”
“’Fraid you’re wrong about me? ’Fraid I might prove I’m not the kind of man you think I am?” He stepped close to her, raised his hand and was about to cup her cheek when she took a step back out of his reach.
It might have hurt less if she had hit him again.
“Chicken,” he taunted, and sauntered away.
Chapter 3
The Blood Bank, New York City
Three years, eleven months and ten days earlier
Meghan and her friends had heard about the Goth bar rumored to have the kinds of men and pleasures in which good little Midwestern farm girls didn’t get involved.
All the more reason for her to check out the place, she’d thought, when one of her more world-weary college classmates had dared her to go to the hangout. After having spent the last four years in New York City as a good girl, she knew this was her last opportunity for a walk on the wild side before she headed home.
Her Midwestern parents expected her to do as they had done—a nine-to-five job, marriage by twenty-five, followed by kids and a nice home in the suburbs. The only problem with that American dream was that it wasn’t her own.
Meghan loved the whole Manhattan vibe and could easily imagine herself staying here, continuing to explore the kinds of things only Manhattan could offer.
Like this supposedly dangerous Goth bar.
It had taken the better part of the day to prepare for the senior dare.
She and her NYU friends had spent the morning searching a variety of vintage stores near Washington Square, rounding up accessories for their Goth getups. Two of her friends had even bought temporary black hair dye to make the look complete.
Meghan, however, had opted to keep her blond locks, thinking that her black clothes would be more than enough.
As she walked through the door of the Blood Bank, she reassessed that thought.
Black was definitely the one and only theme.
Everything and everyone in the bar was swathed in darkness.
The floors and walls were black, as were the surfaces of all the tables and booths scattered throughout the club. The dark color swallowed up the overhead spotlights that panned the sea of bodies on the dance floor and at the tables.
As the light swept the far end of the bar, however, she caught sight of one glaring platinum-blond head. The daring of that one brave individual brought a grin to her face before she forced it away and tried to adopt a serious glare in response to the threatening looks being sent her way by the patrons.
She slipped into a gap at the bar area, close to the spot where she had noticed the man with nearly white hair. After she and her friends had squeezed their way to the edge of the bar, they all ordered shots of Cuervo.
The punky, peroxide-headed Goth down at the end of the long wooden bar wasn’t drinking. Instead he shuffled an empty glass from one hand to the other. He had big hands with long, nicely shaped fingers. His hands were sure as he repeated the shuffle of the glass back and forth, obviously bored by all the goings-on around him.
When he finally picked up his head, their gazes connected.
He had amazing ice-blue eyes, and when he smiled, a sexy grin dragged a dimple out on the right side of his handsome face.
She smiled back, picked up her glass of tequila and downed it in one gulp, wincing at the strength of the straight liquor.
Mr. Platinum Punk clearly seemed amused by her as he chuckled and shook his head. The longer strands of hair at the top of his head shifted with the motion. He picked up his empty glass and motioned to it with an index finger. She noticed as he did so that he wore a steel ring with some kind of ornate design on his thumb and some thin black bracelets on his wrist.
He definitely had the whole Bad Boy thing down pat.
She didn’t need any further prompting, determined to live out the dare that had been made earlier in the day. The dare that said she not only had to visit the hangout but hook up with at least one bar denizen before leaving for the night. While she wasn’t into one-night stands, a makeout session with someone as sexy as the man at the end of the bar wouldn’t be so bad.
She shoved two fingers into the air and waved them to get the barkeep’s attention. When he brought the shots over, she reached into her jeans, pulled out a twenty and tossed it on the counter. Ignoring her friends’ excited squeals as they realized her intent, she sashayed the few feet to the handsome punk, smiling as his gaze drifted down her body to where her hips were encased in snug black jeans, then shifted back upward across her breasts and finally settled on her face.
Slipping onto the cracked plastic pad of the empty bar stool beside his, she slammed the shot onto the bar.
“This is what you wanted, right?” she said.
Blake’s gaze slipped from her attractive face to linger on her body, admiring all the lush curves. Her full breasts strained over the edge of the cotton tank top she wore beneath a leather jacket that was a bit too big, almost as if she had borrowed it for the night.
She shifted the glass closer to him and a hint of black lace peeked out from the neckline of the tank top as she said, “Well? Cat got your tongue?”
“No would be the answer to both of those questions, love.” He pitched the tone of his voice low, striving for that sexy rasp women seemed to find so enticing.
“Brit?” she asked before downing the contents of her shot glass. As she had done before, she winced after the drink went down.
“New to this, love?” he teased.
He picked up his own glass and tossed back the drink, the strong liquor dragging a grimace from him, too. His preferred beverage—blood—generally went down smoother and had a far different kick.
She chuckled at his reaction and shook her head. “Seems you’re new to this as well.”
The liquor warmed his belly, but not as much as the thought of taking a nip out of her luscious flesh. Scooting to the edge of his bar stool, he leaned toward her, brushed aside her shoulder-length hair and whispered in her ear, “Cat definitely doesn’t have my tongue.”
To prove it, he licked the shell of her ear, and she couldn’t control the shiver that traveled over her body before she moved away from him.
“Fast, aren’t you?” she said, but her words lacked sting. An amused expression slipped across her cute Girl-Next-Door features before she resumed the scowl she had worn when he had first noticed her.
“That makes two of us, doesn’t it?”
She arched a perfectly waxed brow. “So you think you and I are alike somehow?”
He eyeballed her from head to toe again before signaling the bartender for another round. The man sneered and ignored his request until Blake reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a hard-earned twenty onto the bar. After that, the bartender deposited the shots with little finesse and snagged the payment quickly.
Blake raised his glass and slugged down the drink, as did his companion. After mutual grimaces, he motioned to her with the empty tumbler. “I think that getup you’re wearing is borrowed and the shots are for courage, love. I think you might even be a cheerleader in another life. Am I wrong?”
Meghan crinkled her nose in response.
“A cheerleader?” she said, but damn, did she resent that he had nailed it on the head. Deciding a little payback was in order, she pointed at his getup with a perfectly manicured finger sporting blush pink polish. “That look is so carbon-dated. Besides, a cheerleader beats a bad Billy Idol clone any day.”
To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. When he faced her again, that damned sexy grin and dimple were back, flushing her body with a warmth that had nothing to do with the liquor.
“Care to test that theory, love?”
“Test?”
He leaned close once again. Th
e sharp scent of tequila wafted around him as he nuzzled her cheek with his nose and said, “You asked what I wanted before.”
“The tequila, right?”
“Wrong.”
He closed his mouth over hers, his lips surprisingly tender as he moved them against hers, inviting her to understand just what he wanted.
Possibly what she wanted as well, she thought, as she opened her mouth and accepted the sweet slide of his tongue. She shivered as he slipped his hand to the nape of her neck and cradled her close.
“Get a room, Blake.”
She jumped away from him at the abrupt command coming from beside them. A lean rail of a man, with skin so translucent and pale that he almost seemed like a ghost, slipped his hand between them and slapped it on the bar.
The specter jerked his head in the direction of the barkeep, and the shoulder-length strands of his nearly white hair barely shifted, hanging lankly around a thin, long face. “If he hasn’t got the cash, get him out of here so a paying customer can sit.”
“He’s flush tonight, boss. So’s his girl,” the bartender responded.
“Is there a problem?” Meghan snared the sleeve of the boss man’s suit and daintily pulled his arm out of the way.
The man’s cold gray eyes searched her face before he turned that condemning gaze on her companion.
“Take your little adventures to one of the back rooms, Blake.”
Blake. The name suited him somehow. Short and to the point, but a little pretentious, much like his punk getup.
Annoyed by the man’s attitude, and recalling that earlier sweet kiss that he had interrupted, she laid her hand on Blake’s thigh and said, “Let’s go somewhere more private.”
Her touch on his thigh, a combination of natural innocence and practiced seduction, burned through the denim.
“Are you sure, love?” he asked, not quite believing his luck.
“Chicken?” She eased from the bar stool and held out her hand.
He slipped his hand into hers. Her warm, silky skin awakened imaginings of how the rest of her would feel pressed against him. He suspected that tonight he would finally satisfy both the demon and the human.
Fury Calls Page 2