by Emily Reed
I wanted to tear his shirt off and lick every inch of him. Again, I surged forward, desperate to take his lips, but he held me back. "No," he whispered. "I won't be able to stop." He sounded pained.
"So don’t," I panted, pulling at his shoulders. Leaning up, I captured his lips, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hands dropped to my ass and lifted me onto the table. Pushing between my legs, he took control of the kiss. I heard water bottles falling over, plastic wrap squeaking, the table scraping across the floor as our tongues played.
Bright orange and white heat splashed across my closed eyelids. It burned around my body, coursing through my veins at insane speeds. His hand left a trail of flames down my exposed back.
There was knocking at the door. "Yo." It was Michael's voice. "Come on," he called when neither of us answered. "It's time to go on!"
Emmanuel did not stop kissing me.
His hand cupped my breast, stroking me through the lacy material. His lips left mine, traveling south. He pulled my hair, tilting my chin skyward. Fingers dipped into the cup of my bra. Emmanuel stilled, staring down at my exposed breast.
Another knock, this one louder. I heard the door handle jiggle, and then Emmanuel's mouth covered my nipple. I cried out, a small, strangled sound that changed into a low moan as he swirled his tongue. “Come on!” Michael yelled. "We don't have time for this."
"I told you I wouldn't be able to stop," Emmanuel said against my breast, the tickle of his lips shooting rays of pleasure and energy to my throbbing center. He returned one hand to my ass, clenching even harder.
"I've got the key," Michael yelled through the door. "I'm coming in, in 3, 2..." Emmanuel turned to look toward the entrance behind him.
"Get out," he growled. Emmanuel's body blocked my view; his hands still on breast, his neck twisted toward Michael, mere inches from my lips.
"We go on in ten, you asshole."
"I don't give a shit," Emmanuel replied, his voice deep and threatening.
"The fuck you don't give a shit." I heard Michael take several steps into the room.
Emmanuel's hand tensed on my breast. It felt so good. I wanted him so badly. What the fuck was I doing, spread out on the concession table of a club I was about to perform in? This wasn't professional. This was insane.
I shifted, trying to pull my shirt back up. Emmanuel turned to me, ignoring Michael. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"We're going on.”
Both his hands tightened at once, making me ache, desperately hungry for him. His hard length pressed against me. I wanted him so badly it clouded my thoughts, but I wasn't this person. This wanton girl. I pushed him back, yanking my shirt up and closing my legs. He stumbled away, his gaze searing.
"All right," Michael said. "You ready to play? Come on!"
The show was incredible. My eyes were closed for most of it, but I could hear the crowd reacting. Michael's sultry voice, Dre's precision drumming…and Emmanuel's bass.
After it was over, we stumbled off the stage, drunk on the music, grinning, knowing we'd done something special. Michael threw an arm around me. "You were incredible," he said.
Our manager, Veronica Haus, a tall woman wearing cowboy boots, tight jeans, a black T-shirt, and a grin, walked into the green room moments after us. She was older than me, in her late thirties, with bleached blond hair she'd pulled back into a loose ponytail. "You guys were amazing!"
"Thanks," Michael answered.
Veronica turned toward me. "You were on fire," she said. "I haven't seen you play like that in a year."
I nodded, unable to respond, feeling the joy sucking out of the moment. Megan flashed across my vision: her hair disappearing through the door at the hospital, her secret smile just for me. The scent of Gilt rushed up at me. "Thanks," I managed to say.
I couldn’t move on. This was wrong.
She turned back to Michael and grinned at him. I put my violin in its case and then backed toward the door. Emmanuel caught my eye, a warning in his gaze. We are not done yet. "Bathroom," I mouthed before slipping out. I’m a coward.
I pushed through the crowd and pressed up against the bar. "You were great," Marty, the owner of the club, said.
I smiled and my cheeks warmed. "Thanks.”
"No, seriously, Darling. That's one of the best sets I've heard you do. You guys are starting to sound like a band," Marty continued, resting a meaty forearm on the bar and leaning toward me so I could hear him over the din of the crowd. Dread curled in my stomach. If we sounded like a band, then I'd moved on. But Megan wasn't gone!
"Can you call me a cab?" I asked.
"Leaving so soon?" he frowned. "I thought I saw Thomas Dowerdy from ToneShell Records heading backstage."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm not feeling great."
"You didn't take anything, did you?"
"No," I said, letting my eyes touch his for just a moment.
He nodded, frowning, and stepped toward the phone. A hand tapped my shoulder, and I turned to find Dr. Issa Tor smiling at me. Ugh. Just what I needed to complete this night. “Hi,” he said.
"Hi." I cast my eyes to the bar. It was a deep, dark wood, thickly lacquered so it shone even in the low light of the club.
"You were great. I didn't realize you played here," Issa continued, acting like I hadn't sexually assaulted him when he tried to bring me soup.
"Only sometimes," I said, playing the game.
"I just moved here, so this is all new to me.” He was close, and as the crowd shifted, he pushed closer. His shoulder brushed against mine. I leaned back into the bar, trying to avoid contact.
"Darling, you still need that cab?" Marty asked, holding up the phone.
"I can drive you home," the doctor offered quickly. "Really, I'd be honored." He leaned closer to me so that his breath caressed my ear. "I think we should talk. There are things you should know." Marty raised his eyebrows at me. I looked up at Issa; his caramel eyes glowed almost gold as I stared into them.
“What kind of things?”
“Please," Issa said, his gaze darting around. “Not here.”
"Okay," I answered, shaking my head at Marty. Curiosity killed the cat, not the fiddle player.
"I can carry that for you." Issa reached for my violin.
"No, thanks, I've got it."
He nodded and smiled, looking almost nervous. "My car is right out front." He took my elbow to steer me through the crowd. I pulled free from his touch, afraid of the energy zapping through me.
He respected the distance I placed between us as we navigated between sweaty bodies, avoiding rocking beers, and making our way out onto the street. A sleek black town car with tinted windows and headlights that looked like glowering eyes waited at the curb.
Issa stepped to the car's back door and opened it for me. The interior overhead lamp went on, lighting black leather seats. There was a driver, I realized. He was wearing a black-brimmed cap, and he didn't turn his head when the door opened.
"Your car?"
"Yes," he answered. "My father is a—" He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "—a diplomat, so I have certain protections."
"Okay," I said, making no move to get into the car.
Issa let go of the door and stepped tentatively toward me. "I promise you that no harm will come to you with me." His voice was smooth and low, the accent slight but decidedly different, like the car and driver. Out of my world.
"What kind of stuff do you think I should know?" I asked.
"Please," he said again, casting a quick glance at the few people smoking by the entrance.
"Give me a hint."
"I know why you always feel so hungry." My eyes narrowed with suspicion. "And I know about your father. Your real father." He raised his dark brows at me. My real father. What the what? "Please, allow me to drive you home."
I climbed into the back seat. In the mirror I saw intense dark eyes, walnut skin, and a bushy mustache. The hair that crept from beneath the driver’s cap was straight an
d jet black, like a panther's. Issa gave him my address.
"Tell me what you know about my father." I kept my hands knotted in my lap, the hunger tickling at my throat, the mention of it like a call, waking it up.
When our eyes met, Issa's went a little hazy. Only my violin case separated our hips. "I'm sorry," he stammered, looking away.
I turned to the window. "For what?" I asked. Out on the busy streets, people smiled, falling against each other—drunk and having fun.
"Darling?" Issa said. My chest clenched, tightening around my heart, squeezing my insides, need spiraling through me. Emmanuel’s lips, his touch—why did I leave? "Are you okay?" I didn't answer. Issa sighed. "I think we need to talk about what happened the other day. Your...recovery, it's important to me."
I couldn't help but let out a rough laugh. "My recovery," I said, turning to him. "I hardly think what I did was a part of my recovery."
"But that's just it—"
"Sir," the driver spoke without turning around. "The street is blocked."
People streamed across the intersection. They were dressed in shabby clothing, their skin sheet-white, hair gray, patchy, and in disarray. A woman in a hospital gown stumbled by, blood dripping down her arm, a gash on her neck. In her right hand she held a beer.
"It's the zombie run," Issa said. "It must have just finished."
"Right," I said, my voice unsure, fear tingling down my spine.
Issa looked over at me. "I'll walk you to your door." I tried to smile back but dread gnawed at me, warring with the desire lining my insides. Issa opened his door, and I clutched my fiddle, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the night.
The driver, named Basil, followed a couple of paces behind us as we fit ourselves into the stream of runners. Many of them still had numbers on their backs. The block was filled as far as I could see in both directions. Someone brushed up against me, then turned and smiled; his eyes were unfocused, and a line of fake blood traced his neck. "Sorry," he said.
I nodded an acknowledgment of his apology and he continued on, saying something to his friend, who laughed loudly at it. I tried to make myself smaller. Glancing back, it looked like a never-ending stream of people.
"You okay?" Issa asked, drawing my attention. He took my elbow, gently pulling me forward. "Don't worry, I'll get you home safe. And if I fail, Basil is right behind us." He gave me a soft smile. "Nothing gets past Basil."
I looked over my shoulder again. Basil's dark, watchful eyes were trained on us, the sea of people splitting around him. There was something about Basil that people instinctively avoided. A scream rose behind us, and Basil's head whipped around, his hand diving inside his jacket.
The crowd pulsed forward, igniting a chain reaction, and suddenly people ran past me, their arms pumping, dodging those of us who stood still. What started as one scream became a chorus of terror. Basil's arm came around my and Issa's shoulders. He pushed us into a nearby dead end. Buildings rose up on three sides. One of the walls lined with dirty dumpsters, the other windowless with a metal door set into it.
The crowd streamed past. A woman fell, and, letting out a sob, stumbled back to her feet, her head twisted around to watch the approaching danger behind her. Ignoring her bloodied knees, the fresh, real stuff looking bright and lurid compared to the dried, fake gore that clung to her neck and shoulder, she began to run again.
Issa stepped up next to Basil at the edge of the alley. "Sir, we need to get you out of here." A shot rang out, followed by three more, and then an anguished yelp. I backed up until I hit the far wall, clutching my violin case to my chest like a shield…like a lover.
"We should run for it," Issa said. His eyes were wide, and a lock of dark hair curling over his forehead bounced as he looked from me back to the street, and then to me again. He held his hand out and I stared at it, keeping mine clutched around my instrument.
Shots fired again, closer this time, and Issa turned, clearing my view to the street. Basil stood over two men, his gun aimed at a hunched figure ravaging another on the ground. The legs of the victim shook against the pavement. The attacker did not flinch as Basil fired, hitting him in the back. Basil shifted his aim to the attacker’s head and—pow!— the figure collapsed over its victim, the body spasming beneath its slumped form.
Basil took one step, positioned his gun over the head of the victim on the ground and fired. I tasted blood in my mouth. I'd bitten my lip. Basil looked up, toward where the screaming started, and dropped the clip from his gun; it bounced once when it hit the pavement. He turned toward Issa as he pulled a spare clip from inside his coat. "Sir, you need to go now." He jammed the clip into place and raised his gun.
Issa took my arm and pulled me forward. I stumbled at first, but as we came out of the alley, I looked where Basil was pointing his gun and adrenaline released into my system, shocking me into action. Figures stumbled forward—just like that woman at the parade. This wasn’t a drug...
With Issa's strong hand on my arm I pounded forward, running faster than I ever had, dodging abandoned belongings as we flew toward my apartment. Just around the corner and we'd be there.
Gunshots sounded behind us, and I took just the sparest second to turn my head before dodging left, down my block, Issa with me. In that brief glance I saw chaos and smoke, some still, slumped figures, and others spasming in seizure.
I skidded to a stop ten paces from my apartment entrance. There was a body blocking my door, face a bloody pulp except for the terrifying specter of white teeth where the mouth ought to be, shaking uncontrollably.
People streamed by me, screaming, and crying. Issa bent down to examine the jogger. "Don't," I warned.
The body on the ground lunged for Issa, those white teeth open and the stump of a tongue straining toward his neck. Issa threw himself away from the creature, who grabbed his ankle, pulling it toward what remained of its mouth. Raising my violin case above my head, I slammed it down onto the thing's wrist, but it didn't release Issa's ankle. The case blocked its mouth, though—the creature gnawing at the rough black exterior.
Blood oozed from horrific wounds. It's glassy eyes shifted, noticing my ankle. It tensed to lunge, but the back of its head blew off. "Where is your apartment?" Basil asked. Blood was splattered all over his crisp white shirt and dark suit jacket.
"There," I said using my chin to point at the door next to him.
He looked at it. "Key?"
I reached into the pocket of my raincoat. Basil raised his gun, pointing it at me. "Duck," he said.
I dropped to the ground, crouching next to my violin case, pulling it close. Basil fired, and a body crumpled behind me, its limbs loud against the pavement with no attempt to break its fall.
Another shot rang out and the same thud. "Sir, get the keys," I heard Basil say as he fired again, and again.
Issa pulled me up and took the keys from my hand. He hustled me over to the door. I held my violin case flush to my chest, my back against the wall, as Issa put the key into the lock.
A man with gray hair and a giant bite out of his neck that exposed tendons and torn-open veins grabbed Issa. Blood poured in long, thick lines down his chest. Teeth bared, he pulled on Issa's arm, knocking the keys to the ground.
Issa grabbed the man’s shoulders, keeping the chomping teeth at bay. His back slammed against the wall next to me, the muscles in his forearms standing out in strong bands. I stuck my violin case between the teeth of the zombie and Issa's face.
Issa's arms gave out, and the creature slumped against the case, pinning Issa to the wall. Then Basil was behind the zombie, stabbing it at the base of the skull, angling up.
It slumped, like a wind-up toy that's suddenly run out of turns, and when Basil withdrew his knife, pushing against the dead man's shoulder for leverage, the body fell to its knees and then to the side, its face landing at my feet. A hand grabbed my shoulder, and I swung my violin case at them, screaming, my whole body repulsed at the touch.
What was once
a woman stumbled away from me and, seeing Issa still leaning against the wall, launched herself at him so hard that his head knocked against the brick, bounced, and flopped onto his chest. Basil was instantly on the zombie, wrapping his arm around its neck, pulling it back from Issa, driving the knife through the thing’s temple, as Issa slid to the ground, unconscious.
Fighting through my terror, I scrambled across the pavement to where my keys sparkled from a crack in the cement. My fingers closed around them and a sudden weight pushed me—I stumbled forward, landing on my knees, the weight following me, pushing me onto my hands.
I threw an elbow, knocking the thing off my back and then twisting myself around so I could at least face my death. A zombie with long hair, still half in a ponytail, launched at me, its speed and hunger far greater than mine. This was the end.
Her hands—still hot, still human—gripped my shoulders, and her wide-open mouth came at my face. I tried to get my hands up, to stop her somehow, but suddenly she flew off me in an elegant arc. Her body landed in the middle of the street, splatting in front of a fleeing runner, who screamed, leaped over it, and kept going.
A figure stood above me, and I swiped at my eyes, trying to clear them. Impossible. "Megan?"
"Yes, Darling," she said. "It's me."
Chapter Nine
Megan stood over me, her bright red hair even more brilliant than before she got sick. The colors were vibrant and varied—every shade from burgundy to gold represented in her long, wavy locks. Impossible.
White, smooth skin, touched with bright pink at her lips and cheeks, defied reality. She looked like a doll made from the finest porcelain. Too beautiful to be real.
"Did any blood get in your mouth?" she asked.