by Hannah Jayne
Alex held out a hand. “We don’t have to go.”
“The hell we don’t!” I jumped up and tried to mask the sharp pain I felt by pasting on a home-team grin. Then I looked at Alex and frowned. “You can’t go like that.”
Alex looked down at himself. “Like what?”
“Like—” I struggled for the right word. Like “every fantasy I’ve ever had” didn’t seem to cut it. Instead, I grabbed his hand and dragged him toward my room. “Come on, let’s get you set.”
I rummaged through my pajama drawer and grinned, triumphantly holding out a Barry Bonds commemorative T-shirt. “Here, put this on. Just—”
My eyes widened and my mouth went dry as Alex dutifully slipped off his sweater, revealing a tight white T-shirt underneath that hugged his firm chest appreciatively.
“Don’t—”
He whipped off the T-shirt next and I was left staring dumbfounded and openmouthed at his smooth chest, his muscles like perfect stair steps down his abdomen. I commanded myself to tear my eyes away but was drawn to his sun-kissed contours like a moth to a flame. He slipped the Barry Bonds T-shirt over his head and grinned at me, caught ogling.
“What was that?”
“Uh, just don’t ... get mustard on it.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“How do I look?”
Yummy! I wanted to scream. I bit my lip. “Needs something. Oh, wait.” I turned to my closet, rooted around a bit, and turned, sliding a giant orange foam finger onto Alex’s left hand. “Perfect!”
Alex looked at the enormous finger, shook it. “You know, I was going to wear this, but I thought, nah, too formal for a first date.”
The word “date” tumbling off his lips gave my heart a little shudder. Normal people went on dates, and normal girls got kisses at the end of their dates. I snuck a glance at Alex’s full lips and licked my own.
“Come on,” I said, dragging him out the front door by his normal-sized hand.
There was already a heavy mist on the air when we hit the sidewalk. Alex jingled his keys and I raised my eyebrows.
“What are you planning on doing with those?”
“I was planning on driving with them.”
I shook my head, took his keys, and deposited them in my purse. He stared at his open palm when I laid a dollar bill in it.
“What’s this for?”
“Muni. No one drives to the ballpark.” I grabbed his sleeve and started tugging. “Come on, the five will be here any minute.”
We fed our dollars into the machine and collected our tickets while the bus driver gave us both a broad smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up. We edged our way down the crowded bus aisle, angled ourselves between the sea of orange and black–clad revelers. Sitting shoulder to shoulder, jostling toward the ballpark, I felt happily normal—scratches, black eye, and visit from one pissed-off angel aside. I looked around and felt as one with my city mates—even though my companion was technically dead. Alex’s knee thumped against mine, and he smiled, rubbing his hand over my knee, sending shivers up my spine, making every one of my hormones stand at attention.
Maybe today wouldn’t be the crappiest one in recent memory.
Forty-five minutes later we were seated behind home plate, balancing overpriced beers and trough-sized baskets of garlic fries on our knees. Alex held both our hot dogs in one hand and sipped at his beer while I arranged my jacket and beckoned for the peanut guy as he made his way down the aisle.
“Peanuts, too? When was the last time you ate?”
“It’s not a matter of hunger,” I reported, fishing some bills out of my back pocket. “It’s all about the ballpark experience.”
Alex got the peanut guy’s attention and pushed my money aside, shelling out for two warm bags of nuts. “Okay, do we have everything?”
I took my hot dog from his hand and took a big bite, nodding happily. “Let’s play ball!” I said with a mouthful.
Alex grinned and wiped away a smear of mustard from my chin. I blushed with his touch, blushed when his eyes held mine a moment too long.
Nine innings later we were covered in a fine spray of ocean mist and flushed with the excitement of a tight win. We both oozed garlic and mustard and as we wound through the horde of slow-moving Giants fans, Alex reached out and took my hand, pulling me close against him. His chest was warm and deliciously firm, and I could smell his comforting cocoa scent tinged with a touch of fabric softener and stadium mustard as I leaned against him.
“So, you like baseball?”
He looked down at me, his cobalt eyes bright in the stadium lights, and pulled me closer. “I love it.”
I swallowed hard as my mouth watered and my mind was littered with unmentionable things; I felt the pressure on my cheeks from what must have been a four-hour grin.
“Me, too.”
It was a hike back to the connecting bus stop and rather than take a cab, we strolled hand in hand in the mist, walking along the deserted streets when suddenly Alex stiffened. I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten, his lips tense. “Did you hear that?”
I cocked my head to one side, listening to the night sounds of the city: the mournful wail of a police siren, the buzz of the yellow streetlight above us.
“Hear what?”
Alex whirled around and I felt a spike of fear start at the base of my spine and prick its way up. My saliva went sour. “I heard that.”
It was the raspy sound of sneakers on concrete coming to an abrupt stop. The sound of heavy breathing—distinct, though barely audible on the late-night breeze.
“Maybe it’s just—”
My words were cut off by the sound of a blade slicing through the air. I felt a body make contact with mine; then the wind as it left my chest when I made contact with the cold, damp concrete. I only knew Alex had been hit when I heard the strangled sound of his groan.
“Sophie, run!”
Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion and Alex’s command didn’t even sound like him. It was higher, more menacing, and I kicked my feet, sliding on the concrete until I got some traction, then stopped dead, seeing the dark figure in front of Alex.
Our attacker was dressed entirely in black and stood a half-head taller than Alex, his face obscured by a black knit ski mask that only revealed sinister hooded eyes that remained fixed on us. He held his blade aloft once more and I heard my own scream when I saw the blood—Alex’s blood—dripping from the cold steel.
The man dove forward, his body colliding with Alex’s with a stomach-churning thud, the blade hacking at the air just behind Alex’s left ear. I tried to grab at the assailant, to push away his knife and when Alex got the upper hand I did the only thing I could think of. Within seconds I had my arms around our attacker’s neck, my legs flailing wildly as I rode his back. His non-knife hand pulled back to grab at me and I gripped it, and bit down as hard as I could on the fleshy web between his forefinger and thumb. He howled, hunched, and launched me forward. I rammed into Alex’s chest and he caught me, sloppily, both of us going down to the concrete and rolling apart. The wail of a police siren sounded somewhere in the distance and droned until it was closer; by the time I looked up, our attacker was long gone.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked breathily.
“I’m fine but you’re—” I gaped at the red velvet blood that rippled through his fingers as he clutched his shoulder. “You’re hurt. We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” I sprang to my feet and sprinted into the middle of the street, flailing my arms wildly at no one.
“Where is everyone? This is an emergency! We need a doctor! We need an ambulance!” I rolled up on my tiptoes as though the extra half inch would allow me to see over the building tops. “What happened to the police siren?”
Alex lumbered up and put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m fine; it’s nothing. It’s just a scratch.”
“A scratch?” I could smell the metallic scent of his blood and it made me slightly woozy. “We’ve got to do something! You could los
e that arm!” I patted myself. “Oh! Cell phone!”
“It’s fine.”
Before I could steady my shaking fingers enough to dial, I saw Alex use his good arm to flag down a couple of orbs of white light coming from the dark alley. I felt a little splinter of joy. A cab! We’re saved!
The yellow cab stopped in the middle of the street in front of us. I hustled Alex inside and half climbed over the front seat. “SF General and step on it! We’ve just been mugged.” I sat back on the bench seat as the cabbie sped off. “We were mugged, right?”
Alex, still holding his shoulder, shrugged, then winced. “He didn’t ask for my wallet. But I lost your foam finger.” He looked apologetic and I used both my hands against his chest to push him against the seat. “Don’t talk. Relax. We’ll get you another foam finger. You’ve just got to live!” I searched frantically in my purse.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m looking for something to make a tourniquet. We’ve got to stop the bleeding. I’m not going to let you bleed out in the back of this godforsaken cab.” I leaned back over the front seat. “No offense.”
“None taken.”
I could feel the sweat bead out at my hairline and above my upper lip as I wrung my hands and looked out the front windshield. “Can’t you go any faster?”
When I turned back to Alex, he was grinning.
“What?”
“You. I’m fine, really. It’s a scratch. Hey, guy, can you just take us back to her house? In the Sunset.”
The driver obediently flipped on his blinker and I lurched over the front seat. “No. San Francisco General.”
He flipped his blinker in the other direction.
“Lawson, I’m fine.”
“You’re delirious! We need to call the cops. Did we get anything on the perp?”
Alex pushed me back with his good hand and a slight smile. “You’re delirious. The perp? Didn’t I tell you no more Law and Order?” He reached for me, fingered my elbow. “You’ve got a heck of a scratch there.”
I glanced down, shrugged him off, and pointed to the piddly-looking collection of scratches on my arm. “That is nothing. That”—I gestured to his gaping wound—“is serious.”
“Lawson—”
I touched Alex’s hand, and felt his blood on my fingertips. I felt the tears burning behind my eyes. “But you’re going to bleed out.”
Alex put both hands firmly on my shoulders and stared me in the eye, his an intense, piercing blue. “Lawson, I am not going to bleed out. I am not”—he glanced over the seat and then back at me, dropping his voice—“a normal person.”
I don’t know if it was divine intervention, angelic persuasion or the post-mustard drunkenness of a Giants win, but I believed him instantly and nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Right.”
“So no hospital?” the cab driver wondered.
“No, no.” I glanced back at Alex. “It’s not as bad as I thought it was.”
Alex kept a firm grip on his shoulder as I pushed open the door of the apartment building. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“It’s going to be fine.” His tongue dragged across his bottom lip and I cursed myself for feeling so wildly attracted to this sexy, bleeding man.
“Come upstairs.”
I held the apartment door open for Alex and watched Nina go from prone to bolt upright on the couch, an InStyle magazine falling onto the floor, her nostrils flaring. “Who’s bleeding?” she asked without turning around.
Alex paled and took a step back, ramming into me. I shoved around him. “Alex. And he’s going to be fine. Is the first aid kit still under the sink?”
He grabbed my elbow as I tried to step away. “Is she going to—?”
“Eat you? No.” Nina stood in front of us, offered me the first aid kit. While I was impressed by her vampire speed, Alex still seemed unconvinced that he wasn’t about to be a vamp snack.
“And Vlad is out with the fang gang, burning copies of True Blood or something. So what happened?”
“We were mugged. Take off your shirt.”
Alex’s eyes nervously trailed to Nina and she rolled hers. “Fine!” She stomped toward her room. “But just so you know, if I were going to eat you, I would have done it a long time ago.”
“Good to know.”
“Hemophobe.” She slammed the door.
“Shirt off.”
Alex did as he was told and I went from Florence Nightingale to Jenna Jameson. My mouth watered at the smooth contours of his chest and my body ached, remembering how long it had been since I had seen half-naked man flesh ... in the flesh. Now it was twice in one night.
“Is something wrong?”
I wagged my head and busied myself soaking a washrag under the faucet and lining up a roll of gauze and surgical tape. “Okay, move your hand.”
The blood was smeared from the edge of Alex’s collarbone and thickened into a dark red band around his bicep. The thin edges of his tattoo faded into the blood and I used the damp rag to gently wipe it away, careful not to aggravate the open wound. I wiped a little more and Alex’s naked skin peeked through, a healthy pink. More skin, more pink. I grabbed his palm and scrubbed that, then frowned, taking a step back.
“Where is all this blood coming from?” I snatched the discarded Barry Bonds T-shirt he had been wearing and poked my fingers through the neat, blood-soaked hole at the shoulder.
Alex bit his bottom lip. “I told you.”
“But it’s—gone?”
Alex rung out the rag, wetted it again, and scrubbed his arm. He turned on the coffee-table lamp and beckoned me to look closer. I squinted, and saw a five-inch scar in his skin. It was clean, slightly puckered—a pale remembrance of a slice.
I touched it gently, my fingertips gliding over the glossy, raised surface. “It’s healed.”
He gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Kind of an above-world perk.”
“Right.” I cleared my throat and stumbled toward my bedroom. “Let me get your clothes—uh, your shirt. It’s—it’s late.”
I picked up his sweater. It was cold from sitting on my desk, just under my open window all night. I pressed the soft fabric to my face, held it against my nose and breathed, but the scent, the warm, comforting scent of Alex, was gone. All I could get was the distant scent of the ocean on the night air. I felt a lump rise in my throat, felt the frustratingly familiar sting of tears starting to form behind my eyes.
He ate hot dogs. He stepped on popcorn. He slurped when he drank his beer, he howled at the umpire, he slung his arm around my shoulders and belted out “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with the thousands of other fans in the stadium.
But he wasn’t like them.
I glanced down at the scratch on my arm, red and puckered and angry, throbbing with a gentle, warm heat and so distinctly alive.
“Lawson?” Alex called from the living room.
“I’ll be right there.”
Chapter Eight
When I woke up, my bedroom was blanketed in a warm canary yellow. It was comforting, until I realized it was a Post-it note stuck to my forehead. I peeled it off and read Nina’s loopy, bubbled script: Put some Mercurochrome on that scratch. I can smell you from the living room! xoxo Neens.
Did I mention that living with a vampire took some getting used to?
I rolled out of bed and trudged, still half asleep, to the kitchen, where I flicked on the coffeemaker and repeated the slow plod to the bathroom.
“Ahem!”
I glanced into the mirror and sighed. “Grandma, I’m really not in the mood.”
My grandmother’s bushy white brows raised, then furrowed. “What happened to your face?”
“Alex and I got mugged last night.”
Grandma’s milky blue eyes widened and she pursed her bright red lips, the stain of the lipstick sinking into her wrinkles. “What is that city coming to? Used to be a girl and her beau—” Grandma’s eyes flicked back to me. “He is your beau, isn’t he?” I did
n’t answer and she prattled on, oblivious. “Could spend a night out without fear of being attacked by some animal. Or some dope-head or some criminal all hopped up on—on marijuana.”
I shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. This”—I pointed to the purpling mask of bruises under my right eye—“is actually from a different incident.”
Another tsking sigh.
I rolled up on my toes and gripped the sides of the sink. “Hey, Gram, can I ask you something?”
“Of course you can, honey. You can ask me anything.”
“Why didn’t you ever get married?”
Grandma’s shoulders stiffened and I could tell that I had caught her off guard. “What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, I just—I don’t remember there ever being ... someone ... in your life ... that way. And Mom and Dad didn’t work out and ...”
Grandma raised her brows. “And?”
I sunk back onto the souls of my feet. “And never mind. I have to get ready for work.”
I didn’t remember dressing myself in charcoal-grey slacks and a black cowl-necked sweater. I didn’t remember driving to work or the six hours that passed between getting there and processing the last demon request—a notice of intention to cease terror—offered up by a fanged creature with an unfortunate underbite.
“You understand that by giving up your right to terrify, you are also giving up all under-bed, dark-corner, and closet access?” I mumbled.
“I just don’t want to be the boogeyman anymore. I’m hoping to get this underbite worked on and I can’t get a dentist to even look at me without the cease notice.”
I stamped his form and sent him to the next line over, then hung my head and rubbed my temples.
Suddenly, I had a pounding headache and the fat velvet ropes that held our daily demons in orderly lines were bulging, and everyone was talking at once—a cacophony of groans, growls, and wailing howls. My blood started to pulse in my veins and my heart sped up to a feverish, sickening pace. My hairline started to prick with little beads of sweat.
“I’ve got to get out of here.”
I slid the closed sign across my window and pressed out of my chair so quickly that I left it spinning behind me. I was making my way toward the elevator when I stopped, taking in a lungful of freesia-scented air.