by Winter Reid
I slapped him again before I realized I’d done it. He caught my arm, fingers tight and hard, and pushed me back against the cushion. I kneed him in the stomach and heard him grunt, his labored breathing in my ear. I fought him, any way I could.
“Stop!” He ordered, hands rough on my shoulders. “Enough.”
I looked up at him, his eyes alive and bright in the dark. The skin I’d scraped off his arms was thick under my fingernails. I could hear my own breath, broken and halting, and then there was a sudden, seismic crack in my soul; a chasm I could hardly fathom.
I reached up to fill it. He caught the back of my neck in his hand and I pulled him down to me, kissing him, crying against him. And he felt so good. So fucking good. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. My brain was sounding a five-alarm-fire’s worth of warning bells but my body was busy yanking the batteries out of my smoke detector.
His other hand was on my hip, tracing a line down my thigh with his fingertips before he tugged my panties down my legs and over my feet. He slid his hand back up into the soft place at the back of my knee, pressing against it, drawing my leg up, opening me like a butterfly wing, his fingers firm in the crease. I felt my dress move, gliding up to pool at the top of my thighs.
He broke our kiss, watching me in the semidarkness, the question in his eyes echoed by his fingers.
“Yes,” I answered, my voice rough and low.
He slid his zipper down, caught me by the waist, and pushed inside me. I gasped, not ready, and he caught the sound with his mouth, pressing in deeper. I felt the tearing and sting as he entered, my body straining to learn his shape and thickness, his hardness. Then, after a minute, came the drunken, luscious flood that erases pain, replacing it with want. I lifted my hips, chasing after him when he pulled out, hungry for him when he drove back in. My body sang with the joy of it. I couldn’t stop the noises I was making and I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay locked in that tragically euphoric moment forever.
He grabbed at the sofa arm beneath my head, tangling my hair in his fingers, yanking it when I tried to move. I liked how it hurt. A lot. A lot more than I ever had before. I tightened around him, using my legs at his waist, my arms at his back.
For all he had cleaned up, he still smelled like the woods, like cedars and oak and air, and I buried my face in his neck. He used the couch for leverage and rocked into me, hard and deep enough I felt it through my entire being. It wasn’t tender and it wasn’t sweet but I didn’t want either of those things; just more divine friction, more frantic, needy fucking that layered sensation over sensation until I lost who and where I was, and there was nothing left but the free fall that comes just before you shatter.
But then his body tensed too soon and it was over. I felt cheated and unfinished, left hanging when I was so, so very close.
He collapsed on top of me, heavy as my shame as it seeped in around us, rising until I thought I’d drown in it. I tried to push him off but he had gone boneless in that peculiar and complete way men do after making love. He pried his fingers off the arm of the couch and worked his arms back under me, squeezing a little to keep me still.
“We’re not finished,” he growled.
“I am,” I lied. He was still inside me and it didn’t feel like he’d gotten much smaller. I wiggled again and tried not to let my eyes roll back. Goddammit, we hadn’t used a condom. Another fuckup to add to my tally for the night. Unless he had super sperm, we wouldn’t be making babies. As for diseases, I didn’t think he could infect me with anything worse than he already had.
He used my leg to flip me onto my stomach and used my hips to pull me hard against him. Pressing a hand between my shoulder blades, he pushed my chest down into the cushion under me.
“Not yet,” he said.
“I hate you,” I said later—so much later—whispering over the tingling in my lips. My body still vibrated, though it was quieter. Full and swollen. Happy.
He laughed and I realized how long it had been since I’d heard the sound from anyone who meant it. Really meant it. Everyone had been treating me like glass for months.
The mattress moved under my stomach, tiny adjustments that came with my breath, bigger ones as he turned on his side next to me. He put his hand between my shoulder blades as he had in the living room hours ago. There was no pressure though. His intent wasn’t to hold me still but just to touch me, and it bothered me how much I liked it.
“You have every right to,” he said.
I rolled onto my back to see him better, distracted by his hand. It moved with me, grazing over my arm and nipple and coming to rest on my breastbone.
“You took away my whole life,” I said.
“I did.” He traced the swell of my breast with his fingertips, circling my nipple with his index finger, watching it tighten. “But I opened you to another one.”
I snorted, ignoring the heat rising in my belly. “Is that what you call it? Drinking blood in the buff?”
“I have nothing to compare it to.”
“You don’t remember being human?”
He shook his head, bending it down to pull my other nipple into his mouth, his fingers drawing a line down my body. He slipped two of them between my folds, petting my clit before he eased them inside of me. I was already sore from what we had done, but he felt too good, working me over in a slow, deep rhythm, kissing my lips again once my hips started to move.
“Greedy,” I whispered against his mouth.
He chuckled softly and then quieted, watching until I came on a broken exhalation. He bit my lower lip and pulled his fingers away, smoothing the hair from my face, holding onto me while I came down.
When I opened my eyes again, it was still too dark to make out much of his expression, but the structure of his face was easier to see; the strong jawline hidden before by his beard. I was almost glad for the anonymity the darkness lent us.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“You don’t know how old you are?”
“No.”
“What’s the first thing you remember?”
“I try not to.”
“Why?”
“What purpose would it serve?”
Saying nothing, I pushed his hand away. He was the only person who could actually answer my questions. After everything that had happened, I needed more than what purpose would it serve. I got up, walking to the dresser. He had opened the window at some point but the city outside was silent, suspended in that brief nightly respite just before dawn, when even the sirens slept.
“I didn’t mean to change you,” he said finally, and I realized the words were meant to be a gift. A confession meant as an apology.
I stopped, halfway into my tank top, and turned around.
He watched me, his big hand flat in the impression my body had left in the sheets.
“I was too hungry. Too… frantic. I drank so much of you at first. What was left wasn’t enough… so I gave you blood. Not to change you; so that you would live to make more of your own. So I could take it again. I meant to take it all.”
I felt my heart catch and I clutched tighter at the bunched shirt in my fingers.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you just leave me there?”
“I did.”
“No.” I shoved away the memories of our first meeting, of waking up cold and alone afterward, huddled on the path with no recollection of how I’d gotten there. I remembered the moonlight instead, the knife in my hand. “I mean the night I came to find you. After… with the alligator.”
“I can’t answer that, either.”
My anger spiked and all the peace that might have come from what we had done together drained away. “You should leave now,” I said and turned back to the open drawer.
I heard the bedclothes rustle, the sheet pushed away, and then I felt him behind me. His arms came around to hold me and he pressed h
is mouth to my shoulder. Then there was nothing and I knew he was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
The Praise Dream
I wake again and look up. The roots of the tree are still there but the light behind them has changed to the cool, dim illumination of night. I can see the moon winking through the branches, through the old, dried leaves… as if she’s laughing at me. As if she’s telling me she sees me stuck here but won’t help.
I try to move my arms. At first I think I’m just too weak, but then I realize he’s lying on top of me. I wriggle again and he squeezes me briefly, like a reflex, a warning. His head is level with my heart, his breathing slow and even, and I realize he’s asleep. My skin is warm where our bodies touch, wet at my neck, and down the front of my shirt.
I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, the sting in my nose that comes first. Closing my eyes, I see my mother’s hand holding my small one, her long smooth fingers wrapped over mine. I can see her rings, the wedding set and her birthstone—the topaz—in the sunlight. We’re at church instead of synagogue and I look up at her face. She’s singing, holding the hymnal with her other hand. It’s my favorite hymn, and I start to sing with her:
“For the beauty of the earth. For the glory of the skies.”
He stirs again, and I wait for him to quiet…
“For the love which from our birth over and around us lies.”
My voice is soft in the night, rough with exhaustion and pain, but I sing anyway, because I don’t pray.
“Lord of all, to thee we raise, this our hymn of grateful praise.”
Chapter Fourteen
I went back to work a week later, when the self-loathing over what I’d done with the vampire got so bad I couldn’t stand to be alone with myself another minute. I expected Kevin to give me a hard time about going back early but he dropped the phone when he saw me, running over and wrapping his arms around my neck.
“Thank God you’re okay,” he whispered as I struggled to breathe.
The welcome was nice but the truth was they’d been doing fine without me. The First Ladies exhibit was fucking on point, ready to open that night. Kevin and I walked the floor making minor lighting adjustments, but otherwise, it was perfect. They’d landed a PhD in Women’s Studies from American University who was flying in to keynote on the historical role of First Ladies. Between them, Kevin, Lacey, and a handful of interns and volunteers had put together a show any major museum would be proud of. I told Kevin that, standing in front of the Taft gown. The aged white silk glowed on a faceless mannequin, metallic embroidered flowers and tiny beads sparkling under the spotlights.
“It wasn’t the same without you,” he said.
“Kevin, I—”
He held up his hand. “As far as the museum is concerned, your exemplary employment history here entitles you to certain benefits. Though we didn’t realize you’d accumulated three months of leave, now that that time is almost used up, I can tell you that you’ve been granted a year of paid sabbatical, effective as soon as you’re ready to start it. Provided you use the time for research and recovery.”
“Jesus. How did you get the board to agree?”
“Numbers. Since you started here, attendance has more than doubled. The Children’s Workshop is incredibly popular and major donations are up thirty-eight percent in a down economy. Only one member had any problem with it.”
“Mrs. Cooper?” I asked. Jackson hadn’t tried to reach out to me at all since the restaurant. It had been a whole week. The worst part was that he might not have called me anyway, even if we’d still been together. Looking at relationships in the rearview wasn’t easy.
“About your pay; I dealt with it.”
“How?”
“I dealt with it.”
“You took a cut?”
He shrugged.
I smiled. “You’re a good man, Kevin.”
“Had to grow up some time, I suppose.”
Leaning in, I kissed him on the cheek.
“This job should have been yours, Nadine,” he said. “I won’t forget that.”
I laid my head against his shoulder. “Still in love with Lacey?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. “What kind of research are you thinking about working on?”
“I was thinking about vampires.”
“Hmm.”
Ten hours later, Lacey and I sat on the back deck of The Cantina Bar and Grill getting sloppy drunk on margaritas and eating chips and salsa. Well, she ate the salsa. I mostly just drank.
Lacey laughed, her head thrown back and eyes closed.
“Right on my damn desk!” I continued in a fierce whisper. “I could live a thousand years and never get that image out of my head.”
She righted herself, whisking happy tears off her cheeks.
“It must be something about First Ladies because I swear I saw James Heberson and Sassy Duvall sneaking out of the second floor utility closet.”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Swear to God.”
“They’ve hated each other for five years.”
“Love dies with a fury.”
“And a multi-million-dollar divorce.”
“Rage-fucking?”
“Search me.”
“Speaking of rage,” she said, leaning back into her chair and pulling bobby pins out of her updo, “what crawled into Momma Cooper’s panties?”
“What do you mean?”
“She didn’t have a kind word about anyone tonight. Least of all, you.”
I didn’t answer, running my finger around the rim of my glass.
Lacey raised an eyebrow.
“Jackson asked me to marry him last Saturday night. I said no and broke up with him.”
She slapped both hands on the table, leaning toward me. “You said no? Baby girl! How long have we been waiting for this? How long?”
I shrugged, playing with a chip on the table before I looked at her. “He doesn’t know me. Not really. He never did. I was just… convenient.”
“He loves you. Anyone can see that.”
“He does.” I nodded. “But only on his terms.”
Her mouth curled up in a half smile, her beautiful face lit by candlelight.
I glanced into the bar. Kevin and the PhD were sitting side by side, their heads close together. She’d been a wonderful speaker, smart and engaging.
Lacey followed the line of my gaze. Her smile grew.
“Lightning strikes,” she whispered.
“I always thought maybe the two of you… someday.” I trailed off.
“Oh God no. The heart wants what the heart wants, Nadine. And my heart loves Kevin deeply, but it does not want him and it never will.”
I considered that, kicking back the last of my margarita.
“Who’s the guy?” she asked.
I choked mid-sip, spraying tequila back into my glass, wiping it off my face with my napkin. “What? No one. There’s no one.”
“Mm-hmm. Baby doll, I have known you for five years—”
“Three years.”
“—And I have never seen you look this comfortable in your own skin. So I don’t know who you’re fucking, but don’t stop.”
I knew he was there when I unlocked the door to my building. I closed it behind me, turning the deadbolt. The thick snap echoed off the tile floor. I mounted the stairs to my apartment, the faded light that passed through the frosted glass on the door more than enough to see by. It never had been before.
“I remember coins,” he said, stepping out from a shadow beside the stairwell. I turned to face him and he put his hand over mine on the banister, his skin warm and rough. “I paid a man for a jar using coins.”
There was a tug below my navel when he touched me, and I had to remind myself that being with him had yet to turn out really well for me… mostly. At the very least it was unhealthy, physically and mentally. I touched my scar with my other hand.
“What did the jar look like?” I asked after a moment.
“Black with two red-colored figures in robes. It had a long, slender neck with handles on both sides.” He shook his head, remembering. “The figures were gods of the day. I bought it for a lover.”
“A woman?” I asked and hated myself for it.
“A lover,” he said. “I don’t remember who.”
I cleared my throat. “It might have been Greek. Maybe fifth or sixth century B.C., assuming you didn’t buy it later as a collector.”
“And what century is this?”
I gaped at him. “You don’t know?”
He shook his head and I wished he would turn his face into the light so I could see him better. It seemed I was manic in my wishes in that regard. Maybe I was simply more comfortable seeing his face with the barrier of clothes between us.
“The twenty-first. You would be roughly two thousand and five hundred years old,” I said.
“Oh I would likely be older than that,” he said, stroking my fingers.
“How do you know?”
He looked at me. “There is often a period of transition during which our young are prevented from seeing the people we knew and loved as humans.”
“Why?”
He came around the newel post to the bottom stair, keeping my hand under his.
“When you were a child, were you born with conscience? Or was it something that grew in you as you learned from others? Were you born with anything more poetic than the drive to live?”
I stopped breathing altogether. “Are you saying I’ll go crazy?”
“No. Only that, for a time, you will have less control than you’re accustomed to and you will be more dangerous. I would have had to be a vampire for some time to have been able to function in the world. Something as simple as buying a jar, much less having a lover, would have been an accomplishment.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” he said sincerely.