The Undead in My Bed (25 page)

There were no flashlights, of course. Lindy had probably run off with them when she left. I lit a “Relaxing Seascape” pillar candle on the mantel.

“Yep, I’m more relaxed already,” I muttered.

The house was getting darker and darker as sheets of rain lashed against the windows. Even though we were reaching “house sucked away by a cyclone” levels of interior shade, Sam wasn’t due to wake up for a few more hours.

I was trying to figure out what my dinner options would be without power or a manual can opener when I heard a strange thumping noise from the side of the house. I rushed to the window and saw that one
side of the in-ground double door to the cellar had come loose and was flapping in the wind like a particularly heavy flag. Had the latch slipped out of place?

Oh, shoot.
The cellar, where Sam was sleeping. Rain was pouring into the open door.

The second I stepped outside, my brain shouted,
Error! Error! Get your ass back inside!

The rain felt like being slapped around by quick, icy hands, soaking through my T-shirt and stinging my skin. A wind gust knocked me back against the porch railing. I tried to take a step toward the banging noise, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open against the force of the wind and the water.

I scrambled back through the door, slamming it behind me. I flicked my hair out of my face, slinging water across the room. I looked out the window, and through the blurred, rain-spattered glass, I saw that the other door was now waving back and forth. “Well, that was stupid.”

I couldn’t just leave it like that. I didn’t know where the cellar door opened in relation to Sam’s resting place. The storm could pass through quickly, and if Sam was sleeping anywhere near the door and sunlight suddenly broke through the clouds, he could end up a little pile of dust. Candle in hand, I traipsed through the darkened kitchen. The basement door wasn’t locked, which I thought was a nice sign of trust.

The candle was warming in my hand, the wax softening and releasing its strange sharp-clean scent,
as I carefully made my way down the stairs. While the walls were lined with neatly hung tools and clean, orderly worktables, the floor space was open. At least I wouldn’t trip over anything. The noise of the door flapping was deafening, but I couldn’t see Sam anywhere. There was another door at the other end of the cellar, a solid metal door surrounded by new brick. It reminded me of one of those old-fashioned walk-in bank safes.

Of course, Sam had built himself an actual lair. I laughed, shoving my hair back from my face and setting the candle aside on a worktable. It took me a few tries to get the doors shut, particularly when I found that the latch had broken off. I had to secure it with a shovel through the door handles. And thanks to additional rain battering, my white T-shirt and khakis were now completely transparent, which was a fun look for me.

I took the still-burning candle, and I swear, I meant to just walk out, but there was that door at the end of the room. Beckoning. A mental itch I couldn’t ignore. All these nights, I’d been staying in this house, and I’d never seen where Sam slept. It couldn’t hurt to look, right? I mean, he was technically dead at the moment. He’d never find out.

By the time I’d reached the door, I’d rationalized it seven different ways. The vault door featured a traditional combination dial, set to the combination and therefore unlocked. It made me feel equal parts
guilty and happy that he trusted me enough to sleep unguarded.

The space was small. Sam had bricked in just enough room for a bed and a dresser. Now that I’d opened that door, it felt so intrusive and wrong. But I couldn’t help but look at the slim form sprawled across the bed. It was one of those lovely old-fashioned wrought-iron numbers with curlicues in the headboard and a feather tick mattress. How had Lindy missed this? Had Sam sneaked it down here before she started her ransacking of the house?

I moved closer, the small flame from the candle casting a dancing orange light across Sam’s pale face. He was handsome when he was awake. He was absolutely beautiful in sleep, all white angles and smooth skin. His long lashes rested against high cheekbones. He was relaxed, not quite innocent, but definitely not the angry, sad guy I’d met weeks ago.

Also, Sam slept naked.

Panic bloomed in my chest. This was so wrong. He was lying there, naked and vulnerable, and I was peeping at him. I was going to be listed on some sort of Council sex-offender list. Just then, hot wax dripped down the side of the pillar candle and burned my fingers. I hissed in pain, bobbling the candle and spilling even more wax, dripping it right onto Sam’s chest.

And that was the moment I remembered the story about Cupid and Psyche. I’d become painfully familiar
with Greek mythology while planning a “themed meal” for one of my culinary-school projects. I’d chosen “A Feast for the Gods.” Spanakopita. Never again.

Psyche was told never to bother Cupid while he was sleeping, but she couldn’t help her curiosity and sneaked into his room with an oil lamp, dripping oil on his shoulder and burning him. He was furious and left her shortly after, and she had to perform several dignity-defying tasks for the gods before he would come back.

Shit.

Sam didn’t seem to be stirring. I stepped back, slowly pulling my arm and the candle out of reach. A hand shot out to clamp around my wrist. Sam’s eyes were open, hungry, and dark. I pulled frantically at my wrist, barely keeping the candle upright as he dragged me down to the mattress.

“Sam, I’m sorry, I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. There’s a storm—mmph!”

His mouth closed over mine, pulling my bottom lip between his teeth and nibbling it. He pulled the candle from my hand and placed it on a bedside table. He yanked me close, rolling over me and pressing me into the mattress, plucking the buttons of my wet shirt like guitar strings. His hips pressed into mine, pinning me down. He was so solid, so sure, over me, when my head seemed to be running on its own roller-coaster track.

He pushed the wet shirt from my shoulders, running his hands under my back until they cupped my butt, and rocked his hips. I groaned shamelessly, throwing my head back against the pillow. He rained kisses down the line of my throat. I could feel his wicked smile against my skin when I didn’t so much as tense when his teeth skimmed over my jugular.

His fingers worked over my collarbone, tickled the rim of my belly button, and traced my hips. Somewhere in the course of this, my pants seemed to have disappeared. I glanced down, transfixed by the sight of Sam’s hard length slipping between my thighs.

I gasped. I would worry about the pants later.

—

The storm died
down. I had no idea when, but by the time I collapsed back against the mattress, sore, sweaty, and a little dizzy, the wind had dwindled to a dull roar. We could still hear the rain spattering against the siding. It was nice, sprawling out on the bed, the light low, and what sounded like ocean waves beating against the walls.

Sam’s arm was thrown over me, his face pressed into the mattress. I didn’t want to brag, but I was pretty sure I’d broken him. Toward the end, I’d taken his power of speech and the ability to control his eyelids. But he’d done his damage, too. The pretty iron curlicues on the headboard now looked like something from a Tim Burton movie.

His head rose, and his eyelids twitched slightly as he gave me a lazy smile. He grabbed me and pulled me close.

“I was wonderin’ how long it would take you to come down here,” he murmured against my mouth. “Really, woman, how many hints do I have to give you?”

“H-hints?” I sputtered

“I left the doors unlocked.”

“That’s not a hint. That’s inattention to personal safety.”

“Says the woman who spilled candle wax on a sleepin’ vampire,” he whispered, biting lightly at the place where my neck met my jaw. “Kinky girl.”

“Nice.” I rolled my eyes and made myself more comfortable, balancing carefully on his chest. My knee hit the mattress wrong, and the bed sagged in the middle. As pretty as it was, the mattress was lumpy as hell, and the springs squeaked every time we moved. But I was so comfortable. And I loved the feeling of Sam’s hands slipping along my spine, tracing each vertebra with his fingertips. I lay there, my head tilted sweetly against the ridge of his collarbone, completely relaxed.

“So, what happens now?” he asked.

“I think that’s my line,” I said without looking up.

“You know what I mean,” he said, poking my ribs. “When you move out, will I see you again, or will I just be part of the Half-Moon Hollow welcome wagon package?”

“I’ll give you a good review on Yelp, if that will make you feel better.”

“Oh, you’re funny, you are.”

“I try.” I was so tempted to tell him I was staying right there with him, in this very house, as long as he wanted me. And I would be willing to sleep in this freaky Tim Burton bed if he would keep rubbing my back like that. But for now, that sounded a little psycho. So I gave him a Cheshire Cat smile and said, “I’m not quite sure yet.”

“Oh, that’s mean.” He groaned.

I slid my arms around his neck and rolled over him. “Maybe I should take another spin on the welcome wagon before I decide.”

I nipped along the line of his throat, leaving a deliberate mark on his collarbone with my teeth. It faded in seconds. I was going to have to find a way to make those stick.

“That’s so wrong.” he said, sighing.

“You want more genteel pillow talk, get a more genteel girl.”

—

The next thing
I knew, I startled awake in the bed, alone. I could hear footsteps above me, making the floorboards creak. Sam was pacing upstairs in the living room, and I could hear his hushed tones even in the basement. I blinked blearily at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was after 10:00
P.M
. Who would be visiting here at this time of night?

I slipped into my shirt and jeans and crept quietly up the stairs. The kitchen was dark, but the lights in the living room were blazing. I could hear Sam yelling, “No, I don’t have to explain that to you!” followed by tinny babbling. Was he talking on the phone? I hovered near the door, watching as Sam paced back and forth over the worn rug.

“Lindy, that was the amount agreed upon in the settlement. I have a promissory note to show the court. I’ve made the deadline. If you’re not happy with the payment, talk to the judge about it.”

More squawking on the other end of the line.

“No, you don’t have the right to ask that,” he spat. “Because it’s none of your—no!” He sighed. “No. I’m not sleepin’ with her. Lindy, she’s not even my type…

“She’s a friend!” he yelled in response to something Lindy had asked. “She’s just a friend. She’s a nice girl
you
took advantage of. I felt sorry for her after what you did, so we made an effort to get along. Stop gettin’ away from the point. I’m gettin’ the house fair and square. You need to deal with it…

“No, I don’t want to meet up to talk about it!” he barked. After a long pause, his voice softened as he said, “Look, Lindy, please don’t cry. Please, just stop. No, I don’t hate you. No, I’m not mad anymore… You know I do.”

I backed away from the door, feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Was that really how he felt? I was just a friend? He felt sorry for me? Was I a “friend
with benefits” now? A rebound lay? I didn’t want to be boxed into some “friend zone” category of women Sam liked enough to sleep with but not enough to date. And I wanted a relationship with Sam, a real one. I hadn’t realized that until I heard him describe me in such bland terms.

Why would he say I was “just a friend”? Because he didn’t want to hurt Lindy? Did he still love her, despite everything? Was he going to end up going back to his ex like Phillip? Would I get sucked into another bizarre cyclical marriage trap like my parents’ relationship hell? Would any progress I made die as Sam yo-yoed back and forth between the two of us?

My breath came out in a painful little hiccup as I found my shoes and purse. I threaded my fingers through the handle of my bag. I couldn’t be here for this. I couldn’t listen to him talk this way. I couldn’t stay in the house, knowing that he might come down the stairs and find some gentle, “friendly” way to ask me to go upstairs to my own bed. The rational, reasonable part of my brain seemed to be on vacation—again—while the more primal portions yelled for me to get out.
Get out now! Get out before he gives us the “I need space” speech!

My keys jangled slightly, and I caught them before Sam overheard. I approached the living room. His back was turned to me as he growled into the phone, “Fine, call your lawyer! He wrote the agreement in the
first place!” Hands shaking, I slipped from the kitchen to the front hall in a few steps, launching out the door as if I were on a catapult. As I revved my engine and sped down the drive, I glanced back in the rearview mirror and saw Sam framed in the doorway.

—

That night, I
cried the whole thing out to Jolene, curled up on her couch.

“It’s just so embarrassing.” I sighed. “I don’t get caught up this way, all emotional and crazy and snotting all over my friends’ sofas. It’s not the first time I’ve slept with a man who didn’t love me. Hell, Phillip made it clear he didn’t even
like
me toward the end of our relationship. But it’s never hurt this badly before.”

“Maybe that’s because you didn’t care about any of those guys before,” Jolene said, offering me a tall glass of liquor, the origin of which I chose not to question. “And you may be overreacting, you know. You never actually heard him say he still wanted her around. All he said was that he didn’t hate her. It’s not exactly a declaration of love.”

“No one likes a smartass, Jolene,” I informed her, wiping at my wet cheeks.

Zeb, who had disappeared like a cartoon coyote when he’d opened the door and saw my tearstained face, crept quietly into the living room, placed a beer and a plate of chocolate-chip cookies in front of me, and dashed to the safety of the twins’ room.