Sookie Stackhouse 8-copy Boxed Set

by Charlaine Harris

  “Take the books,” I said. “I don’t want to get blood on the books. I’ll have to pay for them.”

  Portia ignored me. She was talking into her cell phone. People talked on their phones at the damnedest times! In the library, for goodness’s sake, or at the optometrist. Or in the bar. Jabber, jabber, jabber. As if everything was so important it couldn’t wait. So I put the books on the ground beside me all by myself.

  Instead of kneeling, I found myself sitting, my back against my car. And then, as if someone had taken a slice out of my life, I discovered I was lying on the pavement of the library parking lot, staring at someone’s big old oil stain. People should take better care of their cars. . . .

  Out.

  “Wake up,” a voice was saying. I wasn’t in the parking lot, but in a bed. I thought my house was on fire again, and Claudine was trying to get me out. People were always trying to get me out of bed. Though this didn’t sound like Claudine; this sounded more like . . .

  “Jason?” I tried to open my eyes. I managed to peer through my barely parted lids to identify my brother. I was in a dimly lit blue room, and I hurt so bad I wanted to cry.

  “You got shot,” he said. “You got shot, and I was at Merlotte’s, waiting for you to get there.”

  “You sound . . . happy,” I said through lips that felt oddly thick and stiff. Hospital.

  “I couldn’t have done it! I was with people the whole time! I had Hoyt in the truck with me from work to Merlotte’s, because his truck’s in the shop. I am covered.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad I got shot, then. As long as you’re okay.” It was such an effort to say it, I was glad when Jason picked up on the sarcasm.

  “Yeah, hey, I’m sorry about that. At least it wasn’t serious.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “I forgot to tell you. Your shoulder got creased, and it’s going to hurt for a while. Press this button if it hurts. You can give yourself pain medication. Cool, huh? Listen, Andy’s outside.”

  I pondered that, finally deduced Andy Bellefleur was there in his official capacity. “Okay,” I said. “He can come in.” I stretched out a finger and carefully pushed the button.

  I blinked then, and it must have been a long blink, because when I pried my eyes open again, Jason was gone and Andy was in his place, a little notebook and a pen in his hands. There was something I had to tell him, and after a moment’s reflection, I knew what it was.

  “Tell Portia I said thank you,” I told him.

  “I will,” he said seriously. “She’s pretty shook up. She’s never been that close to violence before. She thought you were gonna die.”

  I could think of nothing to say to that. I waited for him to ask me what he wanted to know. His mouth moved, and I guess I answered him.

  “. . . said you ducked at the last second?”

  “I heard something, I guess,” I whispered. That was the truth, too. I just hadn’t heard something with my ears. . . . But Andy knew what I meant, and he was a believer. His eyes met mine and widened.

  And out again. The ER doctor had certainly given me some excellent painkiller. I wondered which hospital I was in. The one in Clarice was a little closer to the library; the one in Grainger had a higher-rated ER. If I was in Grainger, I might as well have saved myself the time driving back to Bon Temps and going to the library. I could have been shot right in the hospital parking lot when I left from visiting Calvin, and that would have saved me the trip.

  “Sookie,” said a quiet, familiar voice. It was cool and dark, like water running in a stream on a moonless night.

  “Bill,” I said, feeling happy and safe. “Don’t go.”

  “I’ll be right here.”

  And he was there, reading, in a chair by my bed when I woke up at three in the morning. I could feel the minds in the rooms around me all shut down in sleep. But the brain in the head of the man next to me was a blank. At that moment, I realized that the person who’d shot me had not been a vampire, though all the shootings had taken place at dusk or full dark. I’d heard the shooter’s brain in the second before the shot, and that had saved my life.

  Bill looked up the instant I moved. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  I pushed the button to raise the head of the bed. “Like hell warmed over,” I said frankly after evaluating my shoulder. “My pain stuff has lapsed, and my shoulder aches like it’s going to fall off. My mouth feels like an army has marched through it, and I need to go to the bathroom in the worst way.”

  “I can help you take care of that,” he said, and before I could get embarrassed, he’d moved the IV pole around the bed and helped me up. I stood cautiously, gauging how steady my legs were. He said, “I won’t let you fall.”

  “I know,” I said, and we started across the floor to the bathroom. When he got me settled on the toilet, he tactfully stepped out, but left the door cracked while he waited just outside. I managed everything awkwardly, but I became profoundly aware I was lucky I’d been shot in my left shoulder instead of my right. Of course, the shooter must have been aiming for my heart.

  Bill got me back into the bed as deftly as if he’d been nursing people all his life. He’d already smoothed the bed and shaken the pillows, and I felt much more comfortable. But the shoulder continued to nag me, and I pressed the pain button. My mouth was dry, and I asked Bill if there was water in the plastic pitcher. Bill pressed the Nurse button. When her tinny voice came over the intercom, Bill said, “Some water for Miss Stackhouse,” and the voice squawked back that she’d be right down. She was, too. Bill’s presence might have had something to do with her speed. People might have accepted the reality of vampires, but that didn’t meant they liked undead Americans. Lots of middle-class Americans just couldn’t relax around vamps. Which was smart of them, I thought.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Grainger,” he said. “I get to sit with you in a different hospital this time.” Last time, I’d been in Renard Parish Hospital in Clarice.

  “You can go down the hall and visit Calvin.”

  “If I had any interest in doing so.”

  He sat on the bed. Something about the deadness of the hour, the strangeness of the night, made me feel like being frank. Maybe it was just the drugs.

  “I never was in a hospital till I knew you,” I said.

  “Do you blame me?”

  “Sometimes.” I watched his face glow. Other people didn’t always know a vamp when they saw one; that was hard for me to understand.

  “When I met you, that first night I came into Merlotte’s, I didn’t know what to think of you,” he said. “You were so pretty, so full of vitality. And I could tell there was something different about you. You were interesting.”

  “My curse,” I said.

  “Or your blessing.” He put one of his cool hands on my cheek. “No fever,” he said to himself. “You’ll heal.” Then he sat up straighter. “You slept with Eric while he was staying with you.”

  “Why are you asking, if you already know?” There was such a thing as too much honesty.

  “I’m not asking. I knew when I saw you together. I smelled him all over you; I could tell how you felt about him. We’ve had each other’s blood. It’s hard to resist Eric,” Bill went on in a detached way. “He’s as vital as you are, and you share a zest for life. But I’m sure you know that . . .” He paused, seemed to be trying to think how to frame what he wanted to say.

  “I know that you’d be happy if I never slept with anyone else in my life,” I said, putting his thoughts into words for him.

  “And how do you feel about me?”

  “The same. Oh, but wait, you already did sleep with someone else. Before we even broke up.” Bill looked away, the line of his jaw like granite. “Okay, that’s water under the bridge. No, I don’t want to think about you with Selah, or with anyone. But my head knows that’s unreasonable.”

  “Is it unreasonable to hope that we’ll be together again?”

  I considered the
circumstances that had turned me against Bill. I thought of his infidelity with Lorena; but she had been his maker, and he had had to obey her. Everything I’d heard from other vamps had confirmed what he’d told me about that relationship. I thought of his near-rape of me in the trunk of a car; but he’d been starved and tortured, and hadn’t known what he was doing. The minute he’d come to his senses, he’d stopped.

  I remembered how happy I’d been when I’d had what I thought was his love. I’d never felt more secure in my life. How false a feeling that had been: He’d become so absorbed in his work for the Queen of Louisiana that I’d begun to come in a distant second. Out of all the vampires who could have walked into Merlotte’s Bar, I’d gotten the workaholic.

  “I don’t know if we can ever have the same relationship again,” I said. “It might be possible, when I’m a little less raw from the pain of it. But I’m glad you’re here tonight, and I wish you would lie down with me for a little while . . . if you want to.” I moved over on the narrow bed and turned on my right side, so the wounded shoulder was up. Bill lay down behind me and put his arm over me. No one could approach me without him knowing. I felt perfectly secure, absolutely safe, and cherished. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I mumbled as the medicine kicked in. As I was drifting off to sleep again, I remembered my New Year’s Eve resolution: I wanted not to get beaten up. Note to self: I should have included “shot.”

  I was released the next morning. When I went to the business office, the clerk, whose name tag read MS. BEESON, said, “It’s already been taken care of.”

  “By who?” I asked.

  “The person wishes to remain anonymous,” the clerk said, her round brown face set in a way that implied I shouldn’t look gift horses in the mouth.

  This made me uneasy, very uneasy. I actually had the money in the bank to pay the whole bill, instead of sending a check each month. And nothing comes without a price. There were some people to whom I just didn’t want to be beholden. When I absorbed the total at the bottom of the bill, I was shocked to find how very beholden I’d be.

  Maybe I should have stayed in the office longer and argued with Ms. Beeson more forcefully, but I just didn’t feel up to it. I wanted to shower, or at least bathe—something more thorough than the high-spots scrub I’d given myself (very slowly and carefully) that morning. I wanted to eat my own food. I wanted some solitude and peace. So I got back in the wheelchair and let the aide wheel me out of the main entrance. I felt like the biggest idiot when it occurred to me that I didn’t have a way home. My car was still in the library parking lot in Bon Temps—not that I was supposed to drive it for a couple of days.

  Just as I was about to ask the aide to wheel me back inside so I could ride up to Calvin’s room (maybe Dawson could give me a lift), a sleek red Impala came to a halt in front of me. Claudine’s brother, Claude, leaned over to push open the passenger door. I sat gaping at him. He said irritably, “Well, are you going to get in?”

  “Wow,” muttered the aide. “Wow.” I thought her blouse buttons were going to pop open, she was breathing so hard.

  I’d met Claudine’s brother Claude only once before. I’d forgotten what an impact he made. Claude was absolutely breathtaking, so lovely that his proximity made me tense as a high wire. Relaxing around Claude was like trying to be nonchalant with Brad Pitt.

  Claude had been a stripper on ladies’ night at Hooligans, a club in Monroe, but lately he’d not only moved into managing the club, he’d also branched into print and runway modeling. The opportunities for such work were few and far between in northern Louisiana, so Claude (according to Claudine) had decided to compete for Mr. Romance at a romance readers’ convention. He’d even had his ears surgically altered so they weren’t pointed anymore. The big payoff was the chance to appear on a romance cover. I didn’t know too much about the contest, but I knew what I saw when I looked at Claude. I felt pretty confident Claude would win by acclamation.

  Claudine had mentioned that Claude had just broken up with his boyfriend, too, so he was unattached: all six feet of him, accessorized with rippling black hair and rippling muscles and a six-pack that could have been featured in Abs Weekly. Mentally add to that a pair of brown velour-soft eyes, a chiseled jaw, and a sensuous mouth with a pouty bottom lip, and you’ve got Claude. Not that I was noticing.

  Without the help of the aide, who was still saying, “Wow, wow, wow,” very quietly, I got out of the wheelchair and eased myself into the car. “Thanks,” I said to Claude, trying not to sound as astonished as I felt.

  “Claudine couldn’t get off work, so she called me and woke me up so I’d be here to chauffeur you,” Claude said, sounding totally put out.

  “I’m grateful for the ride,” I said, after considering several possible responses.

  I noticed that Claude didn’t have to ask me for directions to Bon Temps, though I’d never seen him in the area—and I think I’ve made the point that he was hard to miss.

  “How is your shoulder?” he said abruptly, as if he’d remembered that was the polite question to ask.

  “On the mend,” I said. “And I have a prescription for some painkillers to fill.”

  “So I guess you need to do that, too?”

  “Um, well, that would be nice, since I’m not supposed to drive for another day or two.”

  When we reached Bon Temps, I directed Claude to the pharmacy, where he found a parking slot right in front. I managed to get out of the car and take in the prescription, since Claude didn’t offer. The pharmacist, of course, had heard what had happened already and wanted to know what this world was coming to. I couldn’t tell him.

  I passed the time while he was filling my prescription by speculating on the possibility that Claude was bisexual—even a little bit? Every woman who came into the pharmacy had a glazed look on her face. Of course, they hadn’t had the privilege of having an actual conversation with Claude, so they hadn’t had the benefit of his sparkling personality.

  “Took you long enough,” Claude said as I got back in the car.

  “Yes, Mr. Social Skills,” I snapped. “I’ll try to hurry from now on. Why should getting shot slow me down? I apologize.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Claude’s cheeks reddening.

  “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “I was abrupt. People tell me I’m rude.”

  “No! Really?”

  “Yes,” he admitted, and then realized I’d been a tad sarcastic. He gave me a look I would have called a glower from a less beautiful creature. “Listen, I have a favor to ask you.”

  “You’re certainly off to a good start. You’ve softened me up now.”

  “Would you stop that? I know I’m not . . . not . . .”

  “Polite? Minimally courteous? Gallant? Going about this the right way?”

  “Sookie!” he bellowed. “Be quiet!”

  I wanted one of my pain pills. “Yes, Claude?” I said in a quiet, reasonable voice.

  “The people running the pageant want a portfolio. I’ll go to the studio in Ruston for some glamour shots, but I think it might be a good idea to do some posed pictures, too. Like the covers of the books Claudine is always reading. Claudine says I should have a blonde pose with me, since I’m dark. I thought of you.”

  I guess if Claude had told me he wanted me to have his baby I could have been more surprised, but only just. Though Claude was the surliest man I’d ever encountered, Claudine had a habit of saving my life. For her sake, I wanted to oblige.

  “Would I need, like, a costume?”

  “Yes. But the photographer also does amateur dramatics and he rents out Halloween costumes, so he thought he might have some things that would do. What size do you wear?”

  “An eight.” Sometimes more like a ten. But then again, once in a blue moon, a six, okay?

  “So when can you do this?”

  “My shoulder has to heal,” I said gently. “The bandage wouldn’t look good in the pictures.”

  “Oh, right. So yo
u’ll call me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “No. I’m so looking forward to it.” Actually, at the moment what I wanted was my own space, free and clear of any other person, and a Diet Coke, and one of the pills I was clutching in my hand. Maybe I’d have a little nap before I took the shower that also featured on my list.

  “I’ve met the cook at Merlotte’s before,” Claude said, the floodgates evidently now wide open.

  “Uh-huh. Sweetie.”

  “That’s what she’s calling herself? She used to work at the Foxy Femmes.”

  “She was a stripper?”

  “Yeah, until the accident.”

  “Sweetie was in an accident?” I was getting more worn out by the second.

  “Yeah, so she got scarred and didn’t want to strip anymore. It would’ve required too much makeup, she said. Besides, by then she was getting a little on the, ah, old side to be stripping.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. I tried to picture Sweetie parading down a runway in high heels and feathers. Disturbing.

  “I’d never let her hear you say that,” he advised.

  We parked in front of the duplex. Someone had brought my car back from the library parking lot. The door to the other side of the duplex opened, and Halleigh Robinson stepped out, my keys in her hand. I was wearing the black pants I’d had on since I had been on my way to work, but my Merlotte’s T-shirt had been ruined so the hospital had given me a white sweatshirt that someone had left there once upon a time. It was huge on me, but that wasn’t why Halleigh was standing stock-still, catching flies with her mouth. Claude had actually gotten out to help me into the house, and the sight of him had paralyzed the young schoolteacher.

  Claude eased his arm tenderly around my shoulders, bent his head to look adoringly into my face, and winked.

  This was the first hint I’d had that Claude had a sense of humor. It pleased me to find he wasn’t universally disagreeable.

  “Thanks for bringing me my keys,” I called, and Halleigh suddenly remembered she could walk.