“At least, those shoes are.” I glanced at her feet, then my eyes traveled up her shapely calves before returning to her face.
“How’d you end up here? I mean, outside this café?” I frowned when she didn’t answer. “Why’d you leave with that biker dude?”
“I didn’t exactly leave with him. He followed me outside the bar. Then he just gave me a ride on his bike. That’s all. He was harmless.”
“Yeah?” I reached out and put my finger under her chin again, lifting her face up to the light to check out the bruise on her jaw. “Harmless?”
She flinched at the touch. The bruise on her face hadn’t been there when she’d been in the bar.
Her pale skin seemed even lighter under the glow of the fluorescent lights inside the diner, giving the bruise more color.
She reached up and rubbed her chin. “He was a jerk. But I handled him.”
“Why’d you go off with him anyway?”
“I told you. I wanted a ride on his bike.”
“Right.” Hopefully, it was only her chin that was bruised. But she didn’t seem too upset about it. Hell, maybe she was used to guys hitting her. I didn’t like to think that, though. As tough as she tried to appear, I noted the hint of a gentle and fragile spirit. At least, maybe at one time.
Her hair was short, with the front hanging down to her chin, dyed with streaks of blue and red. A little on the punk rock side, I think. She cast her gorgeous, blue, almond-shaped eyes down as she poked her milkshake with her straw before taking a big gulp.
“Careful you don’t get brain freeze.” I smiled and bit into my burger just as she held her forehead and squealed a bit from the pain. I laughed.
“Ow, ow, ow. Crap! I’d forgotten about that.” She laughed.
“Been a while since you had a milkshake?”
“Yeah, actually. Too long.”
“It must be tough alone out on the street. How long have you been without a home?”
“What?”
“How long have you been living on the streets?”
“I’m not homeless.” She frowned.
“Sorry, I just thought…well, you looked hungry when I first encountered you outside and with the bruise…I guess I shouldn’t have assumed that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“Are you a hooker?”
She looked down at her clothes and laughed. “I should take offense to that, but I do look a bit unkempt, don’t I? No. I’m not a hooker, and I will pretend you didn’t just ask me that.”
“If you’re not homeless and not…the unmentionable, then what the hell were you doing hanging out in a strange bar picking up bikers then lurking out in the rain alone at night admiring the bridge on your birthday?”
“Is it a crime to be out at night?” she asked and forked off a piece of her very rare cheeseburger. She closed her eyes in pure bliss as a drop of pink blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.
“That’s the rarest cheeseburger I’ve ever seen anyone eat,” I said, and she picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth clean.
“The rarer, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re a strange one, Chelle. But you never answered my question.”
“You never answered mine,” she shot back.
“No, it’s not a crime to be out alone at night, just stupid.”
“So, I’m strange and stupid.” She put her fork down on the plate, wiped her mouth, and stood. “Thanks for the meal, but I need to get going.”
“Ah, fuck,” I mumbled and stood. Reaching into my pocket, I threw forty bucks down on the table and followed her out the door. “Wait, Chelle.” I grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn toward me, her beautiful blue eyes coated with anger as she eyed my hand wrapped firmly around her sleeve. I let go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say you were stupid or strange. Well, you are a bit strange.” I ran my hand through my hair, and she turned, taking a couple of steps away. “Wait. That didn’t come out right. Please. Let me make it up to you.”
She stood still, watching me as her tongue swept over her bottom lip. I had the sudden urge to suck it into my mouth.
“Go on,” she said, captivating me with her eyes, the beautiful, silver-blue orbs luring me closer.
“I’m sorry I said you were strange. But I think you’re really beautiful.” I shook my head, knowing I was fucking this up. “I’m not a bad guy, I am sort of disappointed that you’re not homeless, though because now I don’t have any excuse for wanting to help you out. Not that you need help. Of course, you don’t. Shit. Look. I thought we were having a nice conversation in there, I fucked it up. Let’s start over. Let me take you out or something.”
“Like, on a date?”
“Sure. Yeah, a date.” I hadn’t been on a date in…I couldn’t remember when. But I wanted to date this woman.
“I don’t date.”
“You don’t… Why the hell not?” Then a lightbulb went off in my screwed up mind that maybe she wasn’t straight. “Oh, wait. You prefer women?” Fuck. Then I remembered the biker. Nope, not the best thing to ask.
“You’re fucking unbelievable.”
“What?”
“You don’t talk to women much, do you?”
“Sure, all the time. I’m a reporter, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember, but your degenerate tactfulness is irritating, to say the least.”
Okay, I guess I deserved that, but then she threw me for a loop when she added, “And no, I don’t prefer women. Though, I’m not opposed to trying one or two.” She grinned, and I realized she was joking. Maybe. “I just haven’t dated for about six months.”
“Maybe it’s time to start up again.” It was for me, with her.
“That would probably be a mistake.”
I took out my notepad and quickly jotted down my number. After I had ripped the page out, I grabbed her hand and shoved the paper into her open palm, folding her fingers over it and closing my fist over hers as a seal. “Here. Call me anytime if you change your mind or just want someone to talk to, or whatever. Plus, you can usually find me here around this time. I eat here often.”
I walked away, leaving her standing there, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping. I didn’t want to stick around for the rejection. I got plenty of those, and I figured this one wasn’t going to be much different.
I jogged back to where I’d parked my Audi, opened the door, and sank into the leather seat with a sigh. Fuck it. Women were a pain in the ass anyway.
Just as I’d started the engine, rain began pelting down so hard it was close to hail. I looked toward the café where I’d left Chelle standing to see if she was still there and closed my eyes with relief when I saw that she wasn’t.
I pulled the car into the garage at my apartment complex and squeezed into the space. Large boxes and assorted other items lined the walls, making the area for my car a bit smaller than I liked. The stuff in the boxes wasn’t even mine, a collection of art I didn’t deserve, given to me out of pity. I hadn’t had the heart or the courage to get rid of it. My surfboard hung on the wall. It had been years since I’d ridden a wave. Not since high school, not since that fucked up day, the day my life had changed.
Yep, a garage was most definitely a necessity for me and all my baggage.
I had plenty of money, but I didn’t live like it. I preferred it that way. I didn’t deserve anything more than what I had right here in this drab and cold apartment.
It had felt good to be able to give Chelle something to eat tonight, even if she hadn’t really needed it. Except now, her independent and flippant characteristics, which I admired, had my head spinning with memories that I wanted to drown in a bottle of scotch.
I unlocked my apartment door and stepped inside. After closing it and flipping both the top and the bottom locks, I shrugged out of my wet jacket and hung it from the doorknob to the closet so it could dry out then took off my shoes and socks. I pulled down the bottle of whiskey. Nights like this seemed to be happe
ning more and more lately. I sighed as I watched the golden liquid cascade into the tumbler. I downed the contents immediately and poured another.
I took a sip of the second drink and headed into the shower. My clothes were still a little damp, and I was beginning to get a chill. I tugged my wet shirt off and tossed it in the hamper then grabbed it back out and hung it up on the back of the door. I’d done that once before, only to find a hamper full of mildew when I’d gone to put my clothes in the washer a week later. I unbuttoned my pants and shoved them down with my boxers, stepping out of them and into the warm spray of water.
After my shower, I tugged on some sweatpants, finding a bit of comfort in the soft, warm fleece that covered my legs, then headed to the kitchen where I’d left my drink. Wrapping my hand around the glass, I lifted it to my lips, savoring the burn my throat seemed to crave, before turning to go relax on the sofa, snatching the neck of the bottle on my way.
I sat, propped my feet up on the coffee table, and sipped at my second glass of whiskey. Closing my eyes, I thought of the sweet young woman I’d met just a short while ago, who’d made my evening seem just a little less fucked up than usual.
I’m not a nice guy, not really. I didn’t normally go out of my way to help women in distress. But there was something about that girl that intrigued me. I’d seen her somewhere before, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. Hell, so many faces crossed my desk in any given week, I couldn’t possibly memorize all of them. Dead women, missing women, distressed women, battered women. Something jarred in my brain as the memory of a face resurfaced in my mind. There’d been a girl, several months back, listed as missing. Though, the face in that picture had been softer, sweet, innocent, and not quite as beautiful.
“Well, fuck a duck.”
That’s why it hadn’t registered until now. All her questions about missing persons. Damn. I’m supposed to be a reporter. I’m supposed to pick up on this stuff. I downed the contents of what was left in my glass and grabbed my laptop.
As I waited for it to load my work page from the site, I poured another drink.
I clicked on the missing persons photos the police always sent us and scrolled to last March. I perused the four pictures, but none of them was the one I’d been thinking of. I went back another month to February. Still nothing of the girl I remembered. It couldn’t have been before February. I clicked on April and there she was. Oh, the hair was different. Much different. In the photo was long and very dark with no blue or red streaks. The girl in the picture didn’t look much like the girl I’d met tonight. Though, there was a slight resemblance, maybe with some makeup. The structure of the nose and cheeks were similar. But it was the eyes that gave her away. The shape was the same, but the color was dark, almost looked brown, definitely not as vibrant and silver in the picture as Chelle’s had been in person. The name typed at the bottom of the picture was Michelle Masterson. Chelle had to be short for Michelle. Of course, she’d only given me her first name, and a nickname at that. Could the girl in this picture be the same young woman I’d met tonight? If so, she wasn’t a missing person anymore. She could have been found. However, I didn’t recall hearing anything about it. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. She hadn’t mentioned anything, though we hadn’t had that much time together for her to reveal every secret she had of her past. And quite honestly, confessing to someone that yeah, ‘hey, I was abducted a few months back, but then I was found’ doesn’t sound like an easy subject to start up with a stranger. Plus, I’d been a jerk and insulted her, making her leave way too soon. Then I remembered the tall man whom she had stared at. What role did he play in her life? And who had given her the bruise on her chin? The biker?
Well, whatever. C’est la vie. I’d probably never hear from her again anyway.
Chapter Six
Chelle
I’d watched Josh rush to his car. He’d hurried away before I’d even had a chance to respond to his offer. I’d started out wanting to take a little of his blood after he’d eaten, but then after talking with him for a while, it wasn’t just his blood that I’d wanted. So, I decided to hold off on that. Until he’d insulted me. What a crappy birthday. First, I got slugged in the jaw by a biker, then insulted by a guy who, in the beginning, seemed like all he wanted to do was help me. But he’d been interesting. At first, I thought it would be dangerous to befriend a reporter. The more I thought about it, a reporter could come in handy. Maybe he had some insight into some of the big news headlines of the past. Stories of what happened years ago that had led me to live in foster care with Alan and Judy. Alan, my foster dad, had taken me in when I was five, after my parents died. Though I don’t remember much about that time or what happened to my family. All I knew was that someone murdered them, and the police thought I knew who it was. Alan Reynolds was one of the cops in charge of the investigation into my mom’s and dad’s death. He and his wife had taken me in, hoping they could help me remember or maybe help me never remember. I’d overheard Alan tell Judy, his wife, that my life would be in danger if I ever remembered what had happened and could identify the bastard. Alan and Judy had treated me well, and I’d actually felt safe. Judy died of lung cancer—no surprise there since the woman was a chain smoker. If I hadn’t been changed into a vampire, I’d probably have died of lung cancer at an early age myself from all the secondhand smoke she’d blown in my face when I was small.
I’d never asked for the life I was handed. Not the one growing up, or the one I had now. If that’s what you could call it. In order for there to be life, there must be death. I suppose I’ve already had both. This life now, I don’t know exactly what to call it. Undead existence, I suppose.
But it is, what it is.
I’m happy that I still have some sort of life.
Fucking Lane.
Not only had he turned me into a blood-sucking vampire, but he’d also decided that he didn’t desire me as much as I wanted him, and he had no intention of pursuing a relationship with me outside of being my Master. Fuck that. From what I’d been told by Gage—one of the other vamps that resides in the mansion with us and a member of the Lost Boys band—when a vampire turned their prey or victim, the new vampire became completely and utterly devoted to the one who sired them. And the Master, in turn, would accept them as their slave or mate or something. The Master usually liked to keep it that way, but Lane didn’t want me as his mate or his slave. For the first few months after my turning, he’d kept me tied up so I couldn’t get into any trouble or kill anyone whenever he went out. He didn’t want me tagging along ‘clinging on him,’ as he’d called it.
I never clung.
I’m not a clinger. Well, maybe I did for a short while. But in my defense, I was scared about what had happened to me, and Lane was, in my eyes, my savior. My mentor, my…everything. He’d turned me into a fucking vampire. I had his blood inside me, and mine was in him. We were bonded.
Well, fuck him.
Oh, sure, it had been okay for him to screw my brains out whenever he had the whim, but it wasn’t okay for me to act like I needed him or wanted him whenever I had the urge.
In the beginning, I’d needed to feed the impulses I had. The impulse to suck like a newborn babe. It wasn’t that I needed Lane’s blood, I needed human blood. But it was always such a sexual high to suck on him and he on me. Vampires were very sensual creatures, and I was no exception. Sex became my outlet, but then, after a few months, Lane had cut me off. He said I didn’t need to use him anymore, and he didn’t want me to keep relying on him. Relying on him? We were fucking bonded!
The burning desire to suck at a human’s vein and drain them until they were dead was a tough one to overcome. I mean, just ask Lane, that was how he’d ended up turning me. He took and took and took until he’d practically drained me. And he’s over two hundred years old. He’d had plenty of time to adapt. He should have known better. It took months for me to overcome the urge to feed without caring about the person I was taking from. I still str
uggled a bit, but then I’d remember that I loathed killing, at least I had when I was alive—when I was human. My human self would have despised this version of me if I allowed myself to turn into such a despicable creature.
It was getting close to the two hours Lane had given me, but I needed to try to see Brandon again. So, once more, I sat across the road. My eyes flitted to the bedroom window where his shadow sauntered by. It looked like he was going to bed. He’d lived in the apartment across the hall from me for the first two years of school. I wondered what had happened to all my belongings? Maybe Alan had them? I sighed, watching Brandon, wishing I could have finished school with him and gotten my degree. But going back to school right now would be too dangerous. I’d need to wait about ten years or so, and use an alias so that no one recognized me. After all, everyone thought I was dead—or missing—and in ten years, I imagined people would forget about me. I hoped I could go back some day when I was sure no one would realize who I was. After my parents’ deaths, I had a trust fund, except I couldn’t access that now. Lane and Cian, his brother, would always help out. They were my family now. Though, at first, Cian didn’t want anything to do with me. I remembered hearing him tell Lane to let me die that night when Lane had “accidentally” turned me. He’d said Lane would be sorry if he made me into a vampire. Was Lane sorry? I think he was too riddled with guilt that night for any other emotion to enter his brain.
I wanted to celebrate my birthday with Brandon the way we had last year. He’d been my only friend at USF, mostly because I just didn’t talk much to other people, but that didn’t bother him since he did most of the talking whenever we hung out.
The first time he’d ever spoken to me, we’d been standing in line, waiting to pay for our books. He’d just struck up a conversation like he’d known me his entire life. It hadn’t bothered him at all when I tried to ignore him, he just kept talking. After we’d paid for our books, he walked beside me all the way to my car, talking non-stop. The most I’d said the entire time was my name when he’d said his was Brandon and asked what mine was. When I’d stopped and opened my door, he said, “Let’s exchange phone numbers and we can hang out sometime.” So, without me even having time to think about it, he’d grabbed my phone out of my hand and shoved his into my other. He entered his number into my cell and handed it back. I looked at him blankly, still holding his phone in my other hand. He grabbed it back and said, “I’ll do it, what’s your number?”
Captivated by a Vampire: Billionaire, Rock Stars, Vampires in San Francisco (Immortal Hearts of San Francisco Book 2) Page 4