“Me and Imogene?” He laughed. “No, we’re not like that.”
“But she touches your hair.”
He shrugged. “I like when women touch my hair.”
Celia did something freakish. She reached up and tucked a piece of his dark hair behind his ear, and it happened again—the pink haze surrounded his whole head, and the smell of his blood smacked her, center forehead.
He paused walking and looked at her. Celia heard him swallow.
“Does your girlfriend touch your hair?”
Ian looked toward the black sea and scratched his scalp. “She’s not my girlfriend. I think that’s kind of over.”
“You broke up with her?”
“No, I’m just…” He started walking again, the flashlight beam an extension of his movements. “I’m twenty-five years old, and I think I’ve been shopping in the wrong aisle.”
“Which aisle would that be?”
“The same one as Imogene, where everyone is shallow and just looking for a good time. Not saying Imogene is a bad person.”
Celia sort of wondered.
“I’m just sick of the party scene and meaningless sex, you know? I’d like to find someone with a brain. Someone real.” He paused. “Plus, I’d like kids someday. The women I’ve dated are not exactly maternal.” Celia saw the glint of his teeth in the semi-darkness.
“No, girls like Imogene certainly aren’t maternal.” Celia smiled a little—just a little.
“Anyway, I haven’t broken up with that girl, no. I’m just thinking it might be a good idea.”
“Oh.” Celia nodded just as Ian stopped moving. She turned to look at him, frozen on the beach, and was surprised by the look in his eyes. “Ian? Ian, are you okay?”
They were about three feet from the edge of breaking waves, and he had his flashlight pointed at the sandbar like it was one of those creatures from Alien. Ian always seemed relaxed, yet there he stood, shoulders tense around his ears, a look of abject horror on his face—and Celia wasn’t even naked.
She grabbed his arm and shook. “Ian!”
“What? Yeah.” He looked down at her. “Do you really need to swim at night?”
“It makes me feel better.”
“I could think of other things that would make you feel better.”
“But…” She looked toward the waves. The dark shimmer beckoned, as did all the slurping, sliding sea creatures below.
“Just be careful, okay? I’ll stand right here,” he said.
Then, Celia did another crazy thing. She actually asked him to swim with her.
His response was unexpected. He turned the color of printer paper and shook his head. “No. No, no, no. Not gonna happen.” The flashlight in his hand trembled.
“I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s not you. Celia.” He shook his head. “It’s uh…Let’s just get this over with. Ten minutes. I’ll time you.”
“But, I—”
“Celia. Please.” God, she thought he looked so scared. For a guy who lived by the ocean, he seemed really uncomfortable with it. The look of horror on his face almost made her turn back to the apartments, but Celia needed her ocean.
She turned away from him, dropped her towel, and ran to give Ian as little time as possible to be reminded of her soft center. But he wasn’t kidding about keeping her safe. Every move she made, the flashlight found her, which the fish really didn’t like. Celia didn’t complain, because at least Ian wasn’t shaking anymore. Even underwater, she could feel his heartbeat and smell his skin.
When she came up for air, he yelled at her, “Time’s up, Mermaid!”
She did one more underwater roll and then made her way up to the uneven beach, past broken seashells that poked at her feet bottoms. Ian put the flashlight down so he could wrap the towel around her body. Really, he wrapped her like a babe in swaddling clothes. Then, he rubbed his big hands up and down the outsides of her arms.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“No,” she said.
“All right, inside.”
She giggled when he took her hand.
Ian took Celia to his apartment. He hung her towel over the outside deck and wrapped her in a well-worn cotton robe. “Second hand store,” he said. “But it’s comfy.”
She agreed it was. Then again, she felt kind of liquid after her night swim, the heat of Ian’s palm still lingering across her skin. She was in his house, on his couch, surrounded by his smell and his books. It looked like books—and comics—were the only thing he owned, plus a few photos. Most of the cardboard boxes were gone, but there were stacks of comic books on his floor, and he’d hung a couple big photos: some more with his brothers and other ones with friends. There was just one of him alone, on a beach at sunset with a surfboard.
He came back from the kitchen with a mason jar half-full of what Celia knew was cheap whiskey. “Just a little nip,” he said. “To keep the cold away.” He pulled the joint from behind his ear and sat next to her. He didn’t light it—just put it on the table in the center of his living room. Celia got the feeling he carried joints out of habit, like a security blanket or good luck charm.
Ian kind of melted into the couch so he was shorter than her. His long legs extended halfway across the room. She watched him smile. “Oh, go ahead. I know you want to.”
Celia wasn’t even nervous. With the mason jar wedged between her knees, she dug her fingers right into his hair.
Yes. This. This is good.
Ian’s hair was so soft, and she ran her fingers through it like he wasn’t there—like it was just her in a room with a mop of fluffy black curls. There were no judgments, just curls. But then Ian made a noise. It was a really good noise. That was when Celia remembered Ian was actually attached to his hair, and she was wrist-deep in it.
She moved his hair a little so she could see his face. His eyes were closed. He looked sleepy. She didn’t have to lick her teeth to know her fangs were out. She leaned over him, and all she could hear was the thump-thump-thump of blood through his veins. She leaned closer. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for?
Then, she drooled on his face.
Ian’s eyes popped open, and he touched the wet spot above his eyebrow. “Do you have a runny nose?”
Celia dragged her hand out of his hair and covered her face from nose to chin. “What? Maybe.” She stood up. “I need to go.”
“Huh?” She realized he probably couldn’t understand her very well, what with her fangs and her lisp and her whole hand muffling the sound.
“I have thom things to do,” she said. She started walking toward his front door, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Celia. Why do you keep running away from me?”
“I’m not. I just—thom things.”
He kept one hand on her arm. The other one went to the side of her face, and he did the thing she liked, where he licked his lips. She felt like his X-Files flashlight from earlier had magically reappeared and was shining directly on his mouth.
Then, Celia realized what he planned to do, and she totally flipped out. “Oh, my God!” She stumbled backwards, hand still on her mouth. “I have to—” She ran right into his front door. As she tried to swat at the little Tweety birds around her head, she heard Heidi outside. Celia practically tore Ian’s door from its hinges and stepped out into the night.
Heidi was shouting something about True Crime, and how could Celia be noisy when Mr. Walters just murdered his mistress? The distraction made Celia’s fangs suck back into her skull, at least, which was when she decided, why not? Go mad.
In that moment, she hated her own guts. She was an idiot. She was a wuss and a failure. She was a damn vampire, and she couldn’t deal with her first bite. She had a shit job. Her only friend was a crazy fellow vampire who used Celia for her blood connection, and there was Ian, standing in the doorframe, looking like Celia had just called his mom a See-You-Next-Tuesday. She did the only thing that could possibly make the situation worse—she kis
sed him.
Chapter Six
Following the kiss, Celia ditched Ian on the front porch, refused to answer the door, and called Imogene.
“I need your help.”
“Merk, you need all sorts of help.”
“Yeah,” Celia said, “but this is about one thing in particular.”
She explained the situation. Imogene said she was happy Celia had kissed Ian. Her exact words: “Someone needs to suck that mouth.” Celia told her she hadn’t actually “sucked his mouth.” The kiss was more like a peck—still, just a peck, and Celia had realized her problem.
She told Imogene, “I can’t control my fangs.”
“Hang on,” she said. Through the phone, Celia heard some weird eighties punk jam in the background. Then, all was quiet. “What do you mean?” Imogene asked.
“I mean,” she paced around her place, “they just come out. At bad times. A lot when I’m around Ian, they just pop out, and I can’t control it.”
“I know. I’ve seen.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
She heard Imogene sigh across the line. “I guess you have to practice.”
“Practice? What do you mean?”
To Celia, it sounded like Imogene was sitting down on leather furniture—squish, squish, but not fart, fart, like at Dr. Savage’s office. “I mean, I don’t know, like, develop your self control. I know, come out tonight. I’m at a party.”
“How does that help?”
Celia heard the music again, weakly this time, and she recognized The Cure. “Come to this party. We’ll get you around a bunch of dudes. Get close to their necks, okay, and then, when your teeth go boing, practice suckin’ ’em back in.”
Celia looked down at her damp bathing suit. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, there are tons of guys here. You can practice all night long. Shit, you could have your first bite tonight!”
“But I want my first bite to be special,” Celia whined. Somewhere deep inside, she knew she really wanted her first bite to be with Ian.
Imogene mocked her. “Special, schmecial.”
Celia couldn’t believe Imogene talked her into it. She had to take a stupid cab because Imogene was all the way out on Barkentine Beach, this touristy island where the bars all played Jimmy Buffet and there was no such thing as a “local.” The party was at a ritzy, yellow, three-story beach rental. Celia smelled sunscreen, lots of sunscreen.
Strangely, Imogene answered the front door like she owned the place, but then, she leaned in and whispered in explanation, “I could smell Ian on you.”
The house was packed. It reminded Celia of party scenes in movies like Say Anything or Can’t Hardly Wait—a bunch of people trying to look cool, drinking from red Solo cups, and playing odd drinking games that involved quarters and shot glasses. Imogene was right; there were men everywhere, but none of them was Ian.
“Okay.” She put her boney arm around Celia and led her to the kitchen. “Let’s get you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink.”
“You need a drink.”
Celia knew Imogene was right; she was hella nervous. She’d done her best to go from just-swam-in-the-ocean to don’t-you-wanna-hit-on-me? Not that Celia knew what option two really looked like, so she just put on a flowery peasant blouse over her jeans. If she was physically comfortable, she thought maybe she could feign emotional comfort as well. Plus, alcohol helped, even if it was beer. Imogene poured her a foamless yellow brew from a keg surrounded by ice in the kitchen sink.
Imogene moved through the crowd like a ghost, and Celia followed until they reached the balcony, which overlooked the entire party area. These were vacationers. They were all half-sunburned with weird tan lines. They wore things that looked too beachy like t-shirts with “Admiral Key” on the front or brand new flip-flops on their sunburned toes. The girls were all in short, summery dresses that looked practically bridal.
“What am I doing here, Imogene?”
“You see all these guys.” She waved her hand over the room like she was conjuring a spell. “They’re fang practice.”
“Fang practice?”
“You’re gonna find guys who look kind of like Ian,” Imogene said.
“Nobody looks like Ian,” Celia whispered.
Imogene groaned. “God, you’re disgusting.” She pushed her red sunglasses off her nose and looked anywhere but at Celia. Then, she pointed. “See that guy right there in the blue shirt? He kind of has Ian’s cheekbones. Over there, that guy has blue eyes.”
“So what’s the point of this?” Celia asked.
“You can’t control your fangs around Ian. I’ve seen it. It’s embarrassing. So if you ever want to bang him—”
“I don’t want to bang him!” she shrieked, loud enough for people to turn and look.
“Yes, you do. Every girl wants to bang Ian. So if you’re ever going to do it, you need to stop…” Imogene popped her fangs out and hissed with one hand in the air like a claw.
Celia was in awe. “See, how do you do that? You can just pop ‘em out whenever you want.”
Imogene put her hand on Celia’s shoulder and winked over her glasses. “Merk, I’m a bit older than you.” She looked back to the people playing Beer Pong below. “Now, you’re going to hit on guys, get close to guys, dance with guys, and when your fangs go boing, you practice sucking them back in.”
Celia wrung her fingers. “Won’t guys notice when my fangs come out?”
“No.” Imogene laughed, Butthead-style. “We’re all on X.” She cackled again. “Me, I got one of my favorites here, so I might be busy. Find me later.” She walked away.
“What?”
Imogene didn’t look back.
Celia was completely alone at a beach party, which had never happened in her entire life. She decided standing on the balcony was not a way to blend in, so she went downstairs and refilled her beer. Considering she’d never used a keg before, it was all foam, but she sucked on the foam and tried to look cool.
She wandered around and caught some nice smells. Some of the guys reminded her of Ian, but they just didn’t smell right. This one guy smelled like German cheese. Plus, there was the mix of all the women’s perfumes, reminiscent of too-sweet vanilla and dead funeral flowers.
She went out to the back porch that overlooked Barkentine Beach. She could see the dark waves crashing on the beach, but she couldn’t hear them over the sound of Depeche Mode’s “Enjoy the Silence.” She’d always kind of liked that song, so she did her best to join in the ever-moving crowd of humanity even though she didn’t dance. She caught glimpses of Imogene inside, doing her thing and looking like she should be in a rap video.
Imogene said she was older—it made Celia wonder how old.
She felt someone’s hand in her hair, which made her glance over her shoulder. A short guy stood there with a backwards baseball cap and a piercing in his bottom lip. “Whoa,” he said. “You have the most beautiful hair, like, ever.” He ran his fingers through it and weaved a bit on his feet.
“Thanks?”
“Totally, can I, like, just stand here and touch your hair?”
“Yeah, um…” He didn’t look anything like Ian, but he was cute in that little druggy guy way. He was obviously high out of his mind, so Celia thought, Hmm. If I get this over with, I can go home. She said, “You wanna walk on the beach and touch my hair?”
“Yeah.” He nodded as if she’d solved world hunger.
With his hands still on her head, they wandered down the back porch steps and into the sand. The waves were only about ten feet from the prime vacation house.
“What’s your name, beautiful fire goddess?”
She almost choked on her own spit. “Uh, Celia.”
“Celia.” He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Um, what’s your name?”
“Everyone calls me Stoner.”
“Uh-huh.”
They walked down the beach toward Admiral Key when he stopped Celia with his
hands still moving through her hair like warm, sausage-sized brushes. “You wanna make out?”
This is going well. “Yeah. Okay.”
He had to use her hips to support his small stature, but his lips did eventually find Celia’s, kind of. He sort of hit the outside of her mouth and then navigated right until their lips were just…well, he was sucking on her lips. Celia focused. She knew her fangs would come out any second, and he did smell nice. He smelled like shaving cream. So Celia was waiting, waiting for the boing. Stoner kept kissing her, and she even got close to his neck at one point. She could hear his pulse, so she didn’t get it: where was the boing?
This went on for fifteen minutes or so, and that was when she realized there would be no boing—a fang no-show. No one had ever mentioned performance anxiety!
Celia left Stoner on the beach, because he seemed perfectly content making angels in the sand. She threw her red Solo cup under the porch and approached the house to find Imogene. She now had a whole different set of problems to figure out.
When Celia found her, Imogene was wrapped around a blond guy like vines around a tree. She was giving him hickies, and he didn’t seem to mind. He had his hands on her ass, rubbing his palms in circles like he was shaping pottery.
Celia tapped Imogene’s shoulder, and she responded with, “How’s practice, wench?”
“Not good. I need to talk to you.”
“Yeah, let’s go upstairs.” She dragged blond guy behind her, and Celia did her best to follow, despite the ever-increasing crowd who smelled worse and worse. Celia wanted the sea air again. She wanted Ian’s apartment.
Instead, they ended up in a bedroom that smelled of pool water and sunshine sweat. Imogene closed the door behind them and shoved the guy on the bed.
“Okay, watch this,” she said. She straddled him, and Celia wanted to tell her she didn’t show up to watch porn. But Imogene didn’t take off his clothes; she just leaned over him and took off her sunglasses. She looked down and whispered, “You are crazy about me, and this is going to feel so good.”
“Yeah.” The dude put his hands on her thighs.
Bite Somebody Page 6