by Molly Harper
I nodded, even though the motion made my head ache. “Thank you for taking care of me,” I said.
“Well, hell, what else was I going to do?” he scoffed. “I wasn’t going to let you go gentle into that good night—not when you have plenty of insults stored up for me.”
“We don’t ever have to tell Jane about this, OK?” I said, forgetting my drained brain’s assurance that Jane was the one to call. “She’s been dropping hints about how risky my job is. I’ve basically handed her this I told you so on a silver platter.”
“I won’t tell her, Red, but I happen to agree with her. I don’t think your job is safe. I know you like your clients, but if this is the risk, it’s not safe. It’s just not.”
I nodded. “I’ll consider it.”
“Thank you.”
“Why didn’t you just take me to the hospital?” I asked.
“No time,” he said. “I barely had time to call my contact at the blood bank and have him meet me here.”
“What? Why?” I asked, shaking my head. “Why did you even come over?”
“You weren’t making any sense, and I knew you wouldn’t drink on a night you were doing a feeding. I was afraid something like this had happened.”
“And you just happened to know a guy who had access to the rarest blood type in America?”
“I might’ve had some set aside at the blood bank for you, just in case.”
“You had a backup plan just in case a client drained me?”
Dick shrugged. “I have backup plans for the people and things that are important to me.”
I didn’t know if it was the brush with exsanguination or the bashful, tender expression on Dick’s handsome face, but for some reason, my eyes welled up just a little bit. Dick Cheney cared about me enough to have contingency plans in place to protect me from myself. I’d always assigned selfish motivations to Dick’s schemes, but there could be nothing gained from arranging “backup blood” for me. Dick had done something utterly selfless—and most likely very expensive—for me.
I cleared my raw throat around the lump gathering there. “Why didn’t you just turn me?”
Dick absently checked the port in my left hand, stroking down the medical tape there. “We never talked about it. I didn’t want to make that decision for you. Everybody has the right to make that call for themselves, Red. I wouldn’t take that from you.”
I pressed my lips together, tangling the fingers of my left hand together with his, even though it tweaked the port. “Thank you.”
“Here,” he said, twisting so he could reach the high, narrow table I’d set up behind my sofa. He retrieved two large coffee-house-sized mugs. One smelled sort of herbal and yeasty, while the other contained a dark brown meat-scented liquid.
“Beef consommé and barley tea. I know it sounds disgusting . . . because it is. But you need the iron. And the barley tea is supposed to help your hemoglobin levels.”
Sniffing the barley tea delicately, I sipped at it and shuddered, but he tipped the cup against my mouth, making me take a much longer drink.
“How do you know how to start an IV?” I asked him, wiping my mouth. I winced when the medical tape pulled at my skin.
“You know, over the years, I’ve developed a lot of life skills. It hurts me that people don’t believe I have them.”
I drained the cup because I figured it wouldn’t be so gross if I just took one long drink. I was wrong. It was still gross. “It’s just that those skills are so random, we don’t know what’s real and what’s hyperbole. You’re like Half-Moon Hollow’s Davy Crockett.”
I pulled a face as I handed him the empty mug. He nodded toward the consommé, and when I didn’t immediately drink it, he lifted the broth to my lips himself. It was considerably tastier than the barley tea. He said, “I met Davy Crockett once. He was a tool. Wore that stupid cap long after the joke stopped being funny.”
“Davy Crockett died at the Alamo, before you were even born.”
Dick squinted at me. “He did, did he?”
“Don’t do that. You can’t just claim a random historical figure is a vampire just because you think it’ll make your story plausible and somehow cooler.”
“I believe I can. For my future reference, have you ever thought about whether you’d be turned?” he asked, his tone intentionally light and teasing.
“I’ve waffled about this over the years, but I’m still undecided.”
Dick snorted, brushing my tangled hair back from my face. “That’s very helpful.”
I grinned at him. “I don’t want to die. I’m too young and beautiful and fabulous, obviously.”
“Oh, obviously,” he said, his face finally relaxing into a genuine smile.
“But I don’t know if I want to upset the natural order of things. I have no problem with the way vampires live. Hell, I already keep your hours. I clearly have no problems with your feeding habits.” I ignored Dick’s grumbling at that comment. “And I’m certainly not interested in having kids.”
“Really?” he asked. “I think you’d make a great mom.”
I laughed. “What about me screams ‘great mom’? I like my dry-clean-only clothes and my breakables too much for toddlers,” I told him. “I mean, I’m not antichild. I like the idea of children. But I spent a very long time trying to meet the needs and expectations of other people—people who couldn’t be pleased, by the way. And now I’m sort of going through a selfish phase. Healing, but permanent.”
“I can respect that.”
“Anyway, despite all that, I’m just not sure I want to be a vampire. It seems like a long, lonely road to walk. I suppose I’ll know the moment I’m faced with the decision to breathe my last or drink from my sire.”
“Well, I hope I’m there to see that,” he said softly. He paused for a long moment. “I’d like to rephrase that.”
I nodded, sighing as I sank against his side. “I’d be more comfortable if you did.”
“So, full disclosure, I went through your kitchen drawers looking for medical supplies.”
“OK.”
“And I saw the picture.”
I blinked up at him for a long time. “Oh . . . Oh.”
He’d seen the picture—the framed four-by-six photo of me wrapped in Mathias’s long arms, cuddling in his lap while he pontificated on some point in arcane history. Whenever I felt lonely for Mathias, I put that photo out on my coffee table. I didn’t use it to remind myself of happy times. I put it out so I could see the look on my face—the total, addlepated devotion, the eagerness to please. Meanwhile, Mathias’s whole body was oriented away from me, focused entirely on the person he was talking to. I might as well have been a potted plant in his lap for all the attention he was paying me. So whenever I felt like I was forgetting my righteous rage, I would stare at it until my spleen felt like it was on fire.
I hadn’t needed that sort of aversion therapy in a long time, because I hadn’t felt longing for Mathias Northon in a long time. And I hadn’t felt the need to bolster myself against vampire relationships. I hadn’t even thought about the photo for months.
“It had his name on the back. I Googled him. Good-looking, professional guy. I could see how breaking up with him would really do a number on you.”
I lifted an eyebrow at the uncertain tone of his voice. Dick never sounded unsure of himself. He was always frighteningly smug when it came to his own merit. It was sort of funny that he was intimidated by Mathias, who was awesome on paper and yet secretly a scumbag, while Dick was so inadequate on paper but sincerely kind in person.
“It did do a number on me, but I got over it.”
“How?”
“I had a collection of friends who helped me find a new life. And when I was settled into that new life, some of those friends contacted the IT department at the college where he worked to alert them to som
e inappropriate material in his browser history. Colleges really frown on that sort of material showing up on their servers, even if the professor in question claims to have no knowledge of how it got there. They particularly frown on it if the material also shows up as part of a PowerPoint presentation he’s giving at a trustees luncheon.”
Dick’s jaw dropped.
“I have very talented friends,” I told him.
“So I guess that’s why you’ve never mentioned him. There was no point. You destroyed him.”
“I don’t know about that. I never followed up, but I’m not sure he works at that college anymore.”
“I need to make some calls,” he said, digging his phone out of his shirt pocket. “Because while you were unconscious, I may have made some requests of some of my friends in the Chicago area that feel like overkill now.”
“What did you do?”
Sheepishly, he admitted, “I was going to have all of his utilities shut off and then have a hundred deep-dish garlic and anchovy pizzas delivered to his house in twos for the next six months.”
“Aw . . . that’s adorable.”
“Oh, hush, so you’ve out-supervillained me one time. I was distracted by providing your vital medical care.”
I burst out laughing.
“Sometimes you make it very difficult to be your white knight,” he grumbled.
“You can try again sometime,” I told him.
“Count on it.” Dick chuckled and wrapped an arm around me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead against the line of his jaw. He always had the appearance of having a five o’clock shadow, but his skin was surprisingly smooth and soft. I took a deep breath, inhaling his spicy bergamot scent. The familiar smell enveloped me and sent a shudder down my spine. I gasped but covered the noise by sucking air through my teeth as if I had been shivering. I pulled the blanket up to my chin.
“Cold?”
I nodded.
“That happens sometimes with the saline,” he said, as he gently pushed me back against the arm of the sofa and climbed under the blanket with me. “Here. Shared body heat.”
“You don’t have any body heat. You’re room temperature.”
“Just snuggle up, woman.”
I snorted, carefully arranging us so my back was tucked against his chest. His arms wrapped around my front and enveloped me in an embrace that was oddly warm. He tucked his face into the crook of my neck, on the opposite side of my Darla-related wounds.
I had no doubt I was safe. It’d been a long time since I’d been able to trust someone to get this close to me.
After Mathias, I didn’t trust my perceptions of people. I didn’t trust that I could be loved, that I was worth loving. As much as I valued my clients, professional decorum and survival instincts kept me a little bit on edge. And now I felt . . . safe and cherished . . . and completely at peace, despite the fact that my head was still pounding and I was snuggled up to a T-shirt that was extolling the virtue of sex in the bluegrass state.
“This is nice,” he rumbled, burying his face in my hair.
I closed my eyes and relaxed against him. “Mmmhmm.”
“See, I’m not such a bad guy.”
I snickered. “Well, you’re not a good guy.”
“Is this because I have my hand on your boob?” he asked.
I yawned widely, noting that he did not, in fact, move his hand from my left breast. “That, too.”
I slept so deeply that I don’t think I moved for twelve hours. At one point, I felt Dick get up from the couch, fiddle with my IVs, and pull the blanket up to my chin. Somewhere inside my barely conscious brain, it bothered me that he was leaving me, running off like I was some one-and-done. But at a weirder subconscious level, it was sort of a relief to have my worst suspicions (about Dick and the rest of the male population, dead and undead) confirmed.
I drifted back to sleep, relieved that I hadn’t wasted years on bitterness and . . . yet more bitterness.
I fully woke up hours later, and the room was totally dark. Once again, I had a room-temperature body wrapped around my back, and his hands were respectfully tucked around my arms. Dick’s chin was cradled in the crook of my neck. The IV lines had been removed, so I could roll over freely. My hands ached from the punctures, and all of the extra fluids made me feel sort of sloshy, but I had to admit I felt better. The throbbing in my head was gone and my mouth had something resembling moisture in it, which was nice.
As I cuddled against Dick’s chest, my eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
He looked so sweet when he was asleep. His face was relaxed and untroubled. The puckish bend to his mouth was missing, and he looked—I knew I was going to feel strange about thinking this later—innocent.
Dick Cheney saved me. He’d come back. He didn’t want me to wake up alone. He wanted to take care of me. I’d never been with someone who wanted to take care of me instead of the other way around. I leaned closer, letting my nose brush against his. He didn’t stir. Licking my lips lightly, I pressed forward and brushed my mouth against his.
He inhaled sharply and jerked awake. His eyes flew open wide, and I leaned back, a cold flash of fear in my belly warning me that I might have gone too far. One does not poke a sleeping predator. And making out with him without permission? Probably not a good idea, either. But in the darkness, I could see Dick’s lips curve upward. He lowered his forehead against mine, and after a long moment, he kissed me back. His lips were cool and smooth and molded against mine. I melted into him as I felt his hands sweep over my back and pull me even closer.
I wound my leg around his, bringing his hips closer to mine. I moaned into his mouth as his hands made their way from my back to caressing my bare arms. I twisted my fingers into his T-shirt. And, glancing down at the “Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky” logo, I tugged at it until he reached for the hem and pulled it over his head.
Finally, I got to see what Dick Cheney was hiding under those smartass T-shirts.
Wow.
Why did he wear shirts at all? It was practically a crime against humanity, or at least against the female half of the population. Dick wasn’t beefy and overbuilt, but he had a lovely swimmer’s physique—a long, muscled torso, impressive pecs, and rangy, sinewed arms. And those arms were wrapped around me. It was heavenly.
Before I could make some awkward remark, he pressed his mouth against mine, effectively (and mercifully) shutting me up. I could feel his fangs growing against my mouth. I flicked my tongue, letting it flutter against the sensitive enamel of his canines. Dick growled, clutching my face between his hands as he sucked on my bottom lip and nipped at it. I hissed at the sharp, but not entirely unpleasant, sensation.
Dick retreated, rolling onto his back so I was straddling his hips. His hand slid up the back of my neck, tangling in my hair before cradling my cheek. He was panting, eyes closed, and seemed to be counting to himself. I watched as his fangs withdrew back into line with his blunt teeth.
He was getting himself back under control. For me. I scrambled up the length of his body to basically attack his mouth. A strange response to a man’s demonstrated resistance to violence, but good God, Dick Cheney restraining himself for my sake was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.
This self-imposed “cooling off” did not seem to affect the rather respectable bulge growing in his jeans. I rolled my hips, enjoying the little whimpering sounds he made in his throat as the growing warmth between my thighs made contact with that impressive erection. I grinned against his mouth, pleased and just a little smug.
He spread his large hand with its long, graceful fingers over my breast, pushing the lace camisole aside. He thumbed my nipple, while his other hand caressed the length of my spine. Those same long fingers pressed against my ass, pinning me against him as he bucked his hips. He nosed along my jaw, pressing cool, wet kisses that left me shivering in his wake.
His forehead bumped against the bandage on my neck. I hissed against the throb of pain and he drew back.
“Sorry,” he breathed.
“It’s OK,” I told him.
Dick pushed my hair back from my face and cupped my cheek. “How are you feeling?”
Sighing, I sat up, and he followed, grabbing his shirt and dropping it back over his head, effectively killing whatever this was. I couldn’t help but pout a little. Good-bye, admirable abdominals.
“So . . . that happened,” he said.
“Yes, it did.”
“But I won’t blame you if you want to blame this on me and my vampiric nature taking advantage of you in your weak state.”
I shook my head. “I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you. And not trusting you has nothing to do with your being a vampire. I didn’t trust you because you’re so damned charming. I don’t trust charming. I don’t trust myself to choose correctly.”
“I trust you.”
“That’s because I just made out with you.”
“That’s probably true. But just so you know, I don’t do that with just anyone.”
“That’s not what I’ve been told. You have a reputation, Cheney.”
“Slander, honey, and falsehoods. I kissed you because you’re special.”
“Because of my blood type.”
“Because of you. Because you’re funny and smart and a little scary when you need to be. And because you’re becoming sassier every day, and I love it. It’s like watching someone put temporary tattoos on the Mona Lisa. It shouldn’t be awesome, but somehow it is.”’
“It has nothing to do with you wanting to take a bite out of me?”
“If all I wanted to do was to take a bite out of you, I would’ve done that when you were helpless and unconscious. Of course, if you want to discuss some mutually agreed-upon nibbles, I wouldn’t say no. But that’s not why I want to be with you. I want to be with you because of you.”
My lips twitched. “Thank you.”
“So are you going to go out in public with me or just use me for my snuggling skills?”
I sighed. “It’d be wrong, wouldn’t it? Just to use you for your body?”