How to Discipline Your Vampire (17 page)

“Should we bring something to drink?” Janine asked, winking at Katie.

“I have Coke,” I answered.

“Sweet,” Katie said greedily, “I haven’t had a bump in weeks.”

Janine slapped her hand on Katie’s shoulder. “She meant Coke as in cola . . .”

“Lame. Whatever. See you at eight.”

I never noticed my diary went missing until it was too late.

So yeah, I had trust issues.

Which was unfortunate when William decided to tell me a few stories from the nursing home this morning before work.

He sure got chatty when he was talking about his old people. Sometimes it was hard for me to listen because I pictured him as an old person because technically, he was.

“Harry started a group with some of the other war vets. I think it’s really good for them. Some of the guys never really talk to anyone other than their family and the nurses. Swapping battle stories around the card table is like therapy for them now.”

“What about you? Is there part of you that wants something like that? Vampire group therapy?”

“Why do you ask?”

I sighed. “Because I think you need more than just your family and your old people. It can’t be easy hiding your nature from ninety-nine percent of the people you meet. I mean, I know Breanna and Steven are close to you, but you must want more friends that are vampires.”

“Harvey’s a friend, and Claude to some extent. Plus, I have you.”

“I’m not a vampire.”

“Doesn’t matter—you know what I am, and you’re accepting of it. I told Viola about you,” he said sheepishly as he finished grilling the English muffin for my breakfast sandwich.

“Are you telling dirty stories to your old people?” I asked incredulously. “You realize you could give them a heart attack.”

He laughed. “Of course. It helps them get limbered up before their fitness classes.”

“No, I mean it,” I continued. “Picture sweet little Viola listening to you go on and on about how you like to be tied up and spanked. How tomorrow you’ll be role-playing as a crooked cop. Could you imagine what her nearly dried-up hormones would be going through? It’s just wrong.”

He stroked my hair. “Viola had mentioned that I looked different. Happy,” he said with pride. “And I told her it was because of a girl.”

I felt slightly nauseous at this revelation.
“Aww,”
was all I could manage for a response.

“I told her I had the most beautiful, intense girlfriend in the world,” he said, assembling the sandwich. “And that I had fallen in love with her.”

I gulped down the orange juice and wrapped breakfast in a napkin. “That’s nice.”

I snatched my keys and headed out the door to work.

“I think I might need some time alone this weekend,” I said. “Maybe you should hang with your fam.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

William

Yesterday was one of the strangest days of my long life.

She has been acting strangely standoffish lately, and when she told me she needed the weekend to herself, the truth hit me hard.

Cerise was thinking about leaving me.

I could see it in her eyes every time we parted—she knew soon it would be for the last time. I feared she wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship, especially from what she had told me about her past . . . which was nothing.

I knew about her likes and dislikes, I knew about her sexual preferences, but as for the real details, I was ignorant. I didn’t know about her family. I’d only met one of her friends, and she had never told me anything about previous relationships.

But I did know this: I could fix it. She had given me confidence that I was worthy and that I was good at what I did. So, I must win her back.

Tonight.

Most women seriously read into things that may or may not be there. A song coming on the radio at a certain time. The name of a new martini at her favorite bar. And, even though Cerise would scoff at it, a line in a horoscope that just had to be true.

So I grabbed a few items around town, and headed to Cerise’s to do what the kids call a ding-dong ditch.

I quietly strode to her door, hung the dress on the knob, and tacked two things next to the hanger. On a book of matches from Gypsy, a chic bar in town, I wrote
SEVEN PM.
Underneath, I placed a Leo horoscope that read, among other things, “You will meet a handsome stranger,” and highlighted that line.

Then I rang the bell and hid behind the bushes, waiting for my little lioness to appear.

She came to the door in a baggy tee shirt and yoga pants. Her hair hadn’t been brushed, and her eyes looked tired. Something was clearly bothering her. I feared it was my confession: I loved her.

Her beautiful face, however, brightened as she looked at the dress and the notes. She didn’t break into a complete smile, mind you, but I could see that my little surprise had intrigued her. She ran her fingers down the cotton dress, and I caught her looking around for my car. I had run here, of course, so as to be inconspicuous.

The effort I usually put into a scene showed just how much I was committed to pleasing Cerise. I selected the décor and props with care, and I picked out the costumes with equal attention to detail. I wanted her to be consumed by my vision and flattered by my attention.

Tonight, however, I couldn’t redecorate the bar, and I couldn’t come up with precontrived notions of what was going to happen. All I knew was that I had to be a handsome stranger and try my best to “pick her up.”

So I took care with my appearance, since it was the only thing I could control. Instead of leaving my hair in its usual state of trendy “flow,” I combed it back in a sophisticated manner. I wore a polished, gunmetal gray suit and monochromatic tie. Tonight I’d play the part of a businessman away at a conference. I printed up some phony business cards, and I programmed my BlackBerry with some stock apps to check when Cerise was seemingly not looking. I usually never wore cologne, but this evening I walked by the perfume counter at the local Neiman Marcus and sprayed myself with some Burberry Brit. I looked in the mirror and smiled.

I could do this.

Cerise was the only thing that mattered to me, and I was going to fight to keep her. Not because I couldn’t live without her, but because I deserved to live with her.

I deserved this. I’d earned some happiness.

This was my mantra during the painfully slow traffic in Portsmouth. My nerves were threatening to get the better of me, but I shook them off and told myself this was best for both of us. She just needed me to show her.

Tonight I took my Corvette, and was glad when the valet parked it right out front. I hoped to be able to chauffeur Cerise to the “hotel where I was staying.” She had seen only my SUV until now, and I presumed she’d enjoy my sports car’s flashy looks. After all, I was a successful businessman.

I didn’t want to see Cerise yet. I wanted her to see me first. I strode to the bar with confidence, and ordered a single-malt Scotch on the rocks. I stretched out, checked my stocks, and nearly snickered at how uncharacteristic I was acting, and took a sip of the drink the bartender poured for me.

I didn’t know how people drank this stuff. It tasted like paint thinner.

I took another sip of Scotch, and then my eyes caught sight of her.

God, she was stunning.

Cerise was wearing Harvey’s black minidress—emphasis on the mini—and a pair of strappy sandals that crisscrossed up her shapely legs. Her long blond hair rippled down her back in cascading curls with a shock of red here and there, and her face was adorned with the tiniest bit of blush and mascara, although she didn’t need a drop of it.

She was a vision.

And the most difficult thing about my situation was that I couldn’t let her know it immediately. I waited for her to speak to me.

I checked my stocks again, and she leaned over to see what I was doing.

“I have an insider tip, you know,” she said to me, and hailed the bartender.

I looked over at her, and tried not to betray my feral attraction. “Oh yeah?”

She nodded, and crossed her legs toward me. The body language, so far, was working in my favor. “Don’t order Scotch if you’re going to make that face when you drink it,” she joked, and ordered two sidecars.

I drank the rest of the Scotch as a shot, and regretted how it would be sloshing, unused, in my stomach for hours. “In my business, if you don’t drink Scotch, you’re not invited into the boys’ club,” I explained. “I’m trying to get used to the taste, but it’s just not working for me.”

She took a sip of the sidecar and smiled. “Taste this; it’s better.”

I put the drink to my lips, and she watched in awe as I drank. She was probably wondering why I could drink something other than blood. I can drink alcohol; it just has no effect on me, so that must be why she’s gawking. Or she was so into the scene that she forgot I was a vampire and not a businessman.

“Much improved,” I said and held out my hand. “I’m Will.”

She shook my hand and said, “CeeCee.” I smirked at the different twist on Cerise.

I took her hand and planted a soft kiss on her wrist. “Pleased to meet you,” I said smoothly.

I heard her heartbeat increase and watched a small bead of sweat form just under her ear. “It’s mutual,” she purred.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” she said, adjusting the hem of her dress and leaning closer to me. “Are you from Portsmouth?” Cerise ran her fingers through her curls idly, flirting.

I took another excruciating sip of the drink, but this time pretended it was refreshing. “Chicago,” I answered. “I’m here on business. Staying at the Four Seasons for a conference.”

She smirked, and I knew she was imagining going back and seeing what the suites there looked like. “Really? What sort of business are you in?” she asked, intrigued.

Darn.
I hadn’t got that far in my head. I just knew there were stocks involved. “Trade,” I answered vaguely, and tried to add on. “Mostly international. Imports and exports,” I clarified, albeit poorly.

“Like Art Vandelay?” she asked with a laugh.

I smiled. “A
Seinfeld
fan, eh?” I answered, somewhat embarrassed that she was making fun of my scene.

“Absolutely,” she said. “So sad when it ended. Do you ever watch
Curb Your Enthusiasm
?” she asked, and I nodded vigorously.

“It’s physically painful to watch,” I said truthfully. “I just hate seeing people embarrass themselves, and Larry David is the King of all Assholes.”

I was really, really surprised at where this night was going, but I honestly didn’t mind. I thought I was going to have to use lame pickup lines and act all suave. Another plus was that I was able to drop the pretense of actually imbibing alcohol, and let Cerise order as she pleased.

We talked for hours. Within another drink or two or three, we had dropped the Will and CeeCee personas and were just talking personally about our favorite shows, movies, books—everything we hadn’t gotten around to yet. I knew we’d be moving on to more intimate topics soon.

A few more drinks in, and we were talking about things we truly love and things we hate. About our passions and our aspirations and the meaning of life.

After yet another drink down, Cerise’s hand was creeping up my thigh. Her nose was in my ear and she was breathing heavy, passionate words. My hands were in her hair and then our bodies were in my car, zipping as fast as possible toward the Four Seasons.

And a Corvette zips very, very fast.

Her lips were on my neck in the elevator, and my hands were up her dress.

If only I knew she wasn’t wearing underwear all night, I wouldn’t have worried so much about how she’d respond to me.

She wanted tonight as much as I did.

But I didn’t get too ahead of myself. I wanted to really connect with her, and even though she was interested in me now, what was to keep her from leaving me tomorrow, or next week?

I wanted to take care of her, to have her open up to me, to just go with the flow.

But right now, the flow seemed to be straight into bed.

The elevator dinged, and we groped our way to the suite. And that was when I noticed Cerise stumbling. She held on to my arm desperately as we walked. I asked her if her shoes were bothering her, and her answer was slurred.

Shit
.

I hadn’t noticed just how much Cerise had to drink tonight.

And as aroused as we both were, I simply couldn’t take advantage of her drunk. How could I possibly avoid disaster tonight?

I unlocked the door, and escorted Cerise chastely inside. I had to start cooling things down before she got mad.

“Let me get you some water,” I said, and grabbed a bottle from the mini fridge and poured it into a glass for her.

She took it gladly and gulped it down. “Thanks,” she panted, and sunk back on the couch. “Now get over here,” she said, words blurring together.

I stood in front of her, obligingly, and she ran her hands down my chest. “Kiss me,” she demanded.

I, of course, obeyed.

Her mouth tasted sharp, and her tongue was thick and heavy, but it still thrilled me. I tried to slow the pace myself, and she complied. What began as a passionate, openmouthed kiss transformed into a tender embrace. Our mouths touched one last time as I scooped up her limp form and brought her to the bed.

I lay down next to her and smoothed her curls away from her face. She was sweating. “I don’t feel well, William,” she said, her lovely tan complexion looking more green by the minute.

I called room service and ordered ginger ale and saltine crackers, then returned to her side.

Cerise’s eyes were glazed and far away, and she looked distraught.

“You’ll feel better soon,” I said, cupping her face in my hands.

“The cold feels good,” was all she could manage. I placed one palm on her forehead and she sighed with relief.

And with a knock on the door, aid was delivered in the form of soda and a snack. I fed her the crackers and she took small sips of her drink. Soon, Cerise was curled up in a semi-senseless heap in my lap.

“How do you feel now?” I asked, distraught that she still seemed off.

She picked up her head, and began to attempt to explain herself. “Stomach’s better, but . . . ,” she trailed off. I placed my hand on her forehead again, and wondered out loud if I should get her to a doctor.

And then she began to cry.

My eyes went wide with panic, and then I realized it was my chance to get her to open up.

Go with the flow.

I put my arms around her, and coaxed her head to my shoulder. She found a spot in the crook of my neck, and sobbed violently. I tied her hair back with the little elastic she always kept on her right wrist.

“What can I do for you?” I asked. “Do you want to talk, or just go to sleep? A massage?”

She spent another minute nestled in my embrace before she spoke. And when she did, her words were slurred and barely coherent.

“Just please be real,” she cried, and looked up at my face. She put her tiny hands to my temples, as if to examine me.

I looked deeply into her green eyes, and said, “I’m real, and I’m here for you.” I didn’t know what it was she wanted—how could I prove I was real? Was this about being a vampire?

“I’ve had enough fake to last a lifetime,” she cried, returning to her sobbing position. I rubbed her back in small circles, and reassured her that I was always honest with her.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, wiping her nose with her wrist. She covered her face with her hands, and attempted to regain composure. However, like most drunken girls, she couldn’t quite gain back her coherence. “I’ve been lied to, William, and I’ve been used,” she sobbed.

I sighed loudly, and pulled her closer. “How could anyone ever use you? You’re so strong, and smart,” I confessed.

She made a half-assed effort at pushing me away. “Don’t you dare sweet-talk me. That’s what he did, and look what happened,” she said, heavy tongue getting in the way of most of her syllables.

“Who did, and what happened?” I asked. I shocked myself with the question. It seemed out of character for me to be gathering information rather than comforting her, but I had a feeling that perhaps this was something she didn’t tell people about. Something bottled up. I prayed that this was the secret that had been eating her up, and if she could tell it to me, then she would be rid of it and we could move on.

She laughed bitterly. “I wasn’t always so harsh, you know,” she said, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand. “Actually, I was a pretty sweet girl until I was
ruined
.” She wiped her eyes and laughed bitterly. “At least, that’s how my dad explained it.
Ruined
.”

I caressed her face with the back of my hand. “Nothing about you is ruined,” I said, suddenly hating her father and whatever role he had played in this. I wondered about Cerise’s mother; was she chased away by her father’s cruelty? Why hadn’t they reconnected? Cerise could use a mother’s love.