The Anti-Vampire Tale Page 3

  I feel movement close behind me. Step forward to get out of the passerby’s way. The movement follows me. Step forward again. Still feel someone there. Anger races through me—no Gray and some jackass trying to rub up against me.

  “What’s wrong, Bright Eyes?” whispers the voice over my shoulder.

  Like a leaf in the breeze, he spins around me. Facing me, Gray doesn’t smile—his face rigid and serious, but his eyes welcome.

  My heart awakens at the sight of him, so quickly shifting from deflated and angry to elated. Completely elated.

  “What was bothering you?” he asks, his breath tickling my ear.

  “Kinda thought you were gone.”

  “Well, I’m right here right now. What else do you need?”

  Struggling to say something that doesn’t make me sound so pathetic, “Little Red Corvette.”

  “You wanna hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let me borrow your phone.”

  “What?”

  “Just for a moment.”

  Take it out my tiny purse and hand it to him.

  “Hang on,” he says.

  After pressing send, he looks to the DJ booth on the balcony that runs along the length of dance floor. We can see something light up, but the DJ takes no notice, talking to a girl who sits on the table next to his equipment and is dressed as Borderline-era Madonna—stockings, short skirt, and hairstyle.

  Gray sends the message again. Lights up. Still no notice.

  Taking a few quick steps toward the balcony, Gray flings my phone at the DJ, which smacks him in the back and lands on his mixer. The DJ picks up the phone and looks down at the dance floor furiously. He spots Gray looking up at him. DJ smiles, reads message, nods head, and tosses phone back down to Gray.

  Before he can get all the way back to me, the song stops abruptly, and the crowd roars in disapproval. Apparently they like “Right Round” as much as I do. I hope no one notices the guilty look on my face.

  Cheers rise as the lights dim and “Little Red Corvette” begins—the natives weren’t restless for long, and I think I’m safe from their pitchforks and torches for the moment.

  Gray moves perfectly, starting slow with the intro, speeding up a little when the snare kicks in, and building to a peak at the chorus.

  His hand reaches out a little closer and closer with his movements. I swear I can feel the heat coming off his hand into the space between us. Closer. Warmer.

  His fingers reach my waist with a smooth slide. Don’t know if my skin has ever felt so much, even through the shirt.

  He keeps it there, swaying me in our rhythm, slowly working his body a little closer. Feel sweat break at my brow. Crowded and sweaty—been that way all night, but it feels so much warmer now. Didn’t even notice the heat earlier. Maybe I only notice it now because the hot air matches my sizzling emotion, when before it had no connection to me.

  Or, the heat’s really intensified with the heavenly body holding my waist and filling my senses with visions of lovely things that I thought would never be for me.

  Never believed in auras. Always nonsense to me. But I swear the air around him is like nothing I’ve ever known. I can feel it my chest—it tingles over my skin, almost tastes in my mouth.

  Song ends and the first piercing note of “How Soon Is Now” cuts through the air. Even a song of painful loneliness seems to be about the beautiful feeling of him dancing so close to me—everything tinted in his electric energy. Still just his hand on my side.

  He raises one corner of his mouth in the sexiest sneer, inviting me to experience more of him. My smile isn’t a thought or a choice, but an inevitability. He sees it, and I know he likes it—his eyes profess it.

  Hand slides to the small of my back and waits. I’m not about to pull away. Watching my reaction, it’s his turn to smile, showing me those shiny, white teeth.

  Pulls me to him. His torso touches me. Slide my arms up the delicious contours of his arms and to his neck. Strange territory for me, but it feels as natural as if I’ve lived here my entire life.

  Song ends and gives birth to “Dancing with Myself.” The faster tempo gets the crowd bouncing. Sadly, we pull apart a few inches—the quicker beat makes dancing so closely difficult.

  His hand still at my side, the air charged, my emotion redlined. Never been better…Ever.

  I catch smiles cracking through the tight, pale marble of his face. A vista of male beauty. Blue eyes shining.

  We start stepping back away from each other and then forward into the close, blazing warmth of the last few inches between us.

  Long, red fingernails dive up Gray’s short sleeve and squeeze his bicep. Beginning to dislike everything red.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” says the girl from the bar earlier, tickling his upper arm with those striking nails and rolling the “r” in gorgeous, purring so smoothly that she makes me feel like I’m missing something feminine that she has an abundance of. “Wanna split this thing one more way?” she asks while stretching her neck, placing her face close to his.

  “Sorry, Maxine, I’ve never been good with fractions.”

  “Well, what about sharing resources? You’re an athletic boy.”

  “Not tonight.”

  Her face flashes into something still enviously pretty but enraged like a screeching feline. A tall one, she looks down at me, wrinkle-nosed, and says, “A week ago you bit me so hard you made my neck bleed, and now you’re blowing me off for freakin’ Little Miss Mainstream?”

  Okay. So she wants to play cute, little word games and mock me—mean, hateful words as angry red as her fingernails. I’ve got a riddle or two for her in my boiling, red thoughts.

  Feel a girl’s hand at my elbow. Must be my blue-flaxened friend. Turn to see. Wrong. Strange.

  A tall, redhead sways her head with the weight of one drink too many and talks into my ear way too loudly.

  “I have a gorgeous friend who thinks you’re hot.”

  “What?” I respond—too much on my mind for this nonsense to make any sense.

  “His name is Jake,” she says pointing near the stage at a boy with spiky, thick, gelled, black hair that points in many directions, “He’s hot—thinks you’re hot and wants to dance with you.”

  The boy raises his head in the air, pointing his nose at me like a wolf to the moon as if he can hear what we’re saying. He dances with a brunette and a blonde in front of him.

  The redhead says in a quick slur, “That’s just our friends—they’re not his girlfriends.”

  Don’t care if they’re his wives. Nothing wrong with the boy, except for two rubber bands bouncing atop each of his shoes around his ankles. Any other girl would go to him—he’s already dancing with a blonde and a brunette and has a redhead matchmaking for him—he’s surrounded by a Neapolitan girl entourage, but not me. He might as well be a smelly animal, some furry werewolf or something, for all my heart cares. I’ve seen the beginning of love, felt it shoot through me, and it doesn’t look like him.

  My eyes have already chosen what my love looks like.

  Song ends. The ceasing of music makes me panic that it’s not all that’s ending.

  Mumble no thanks or something that sounds like that to the redhead and turn away quickly.

  Gray stands with his hands at his sides, not dancing, so much energy, so beautiful, and standing like a statue, warmth frozen over, waiting for me.

  Glance at Jake, then to Lyle, and back to my Gray. Gray is to men what men are to children. They’re all male humans but are so far apart in development that they require different names.

  He waits. For me. Could jump right into his arms, but I grasp his hand and put it against my waist.

  His eyes flash awake. Energy floods back into him. Through him it tingles into me.

  His voice seems to run down my spine, “The whole world tries to tear us apart.”

  The truth of his words sparks a wave of fear that makes my lips twitch. Lyle. Jake. Ponytail boy. The redhead gi
rl. Fingernails girl. Even Ambrosia. Right—they all pulled us apart. Only boy I’ve ever wanted this way. So unfair.

  “They won’t win.”

  His words warm me, melting all worry, lighting me up from the inside.

  Closely-shorn sideburns run from underneath his shoulder-length hair; giving way to angular, sculpted cheekbones; smooth skin clinging to them even tighter than his gray shirt stretches over his pecs and down toward his small waist. He’s a beautifully torn edge, equally full of the savage and the tantalizing. He could send a wolf pack reeling away in fear or bring any woman to her knees with the same confidence-soaked right-side sneer of his upper lip, and right now it’s focused on me.

  His smile-sneer raises a little higher as he dances, and I wonder not if I’ll run from him or step even closer to him, but I only ponder if he is aware he is doing it or if it is beyond his control. I think I’d tingle even more if I knew his unique smile was uncontrollable around me.

  My head barely reaches his shoulder, but I leave it there. Cheek pressed against him. My eyes close. Face overtaken by smile.

  Such a wild place. Never thought I’d be happy here. So odd that I found him in this strange environment. I feel like I let Ambrosia lead me into hell only to find someone who doesn’t belong here any more than I.

  Open my eyes, and for the first time while we’ve been dancing, he looks away from me. Toward the stage. Ambrosia. Dancing.

  Lots of guys watch her dance, but his face grows disgusted.

  I ask, “What is it?”

  Shakes his head.

  I squeeze his forearm. He looks in my eyes—still silent. I say, “Tell me.”

  “Your friend really shouldn’t be drinking.”

  “Why not? This is a bar, isn’t it?”

  “Na-nevermind,” he says, looks away from me, and shakes his head to wipe the topic clear, but he still looks very annoyed.

  Did I say something wrong? Heaven a moment ago—so perfect. Now he’s angry. What’s his problem all of a sudden? Wish I knew. Then I could decide if I’m irritated or if I just want to help him solve it.

  God, let it be the latter.

  He looks at me—intent eyes and strong lines of his cheekbones offer no clues to his thoughts.

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  My bottom lip quickly finds its way behind my top teeth, feeling like it’ll burst.

  His hand reaches my chin. I release my lip—hold back blushing—lift my head. Pulls me in. His lips come together. For me. So close.

  Colorful drink splatters all over a face near the stage.

  Furious, Ambrosia shouts at Roderick who drips with her sweet drink. Roderick’s nails dig into her forearm.

  “Help her!”

  Before the words are gone from my lips, he’s on his way.

  A wicked smile comes over Roderick’s face as Gray approaches. Still grasping her forearm, he tugs Ambrosia roughly to the side.

  Gray stops directly in front of him, stares him in the eye, and in a flash squeezes Roderick’s forearm that holds Ambrosia. Veins in Gray’s arm throb like raging rivers. Ambrosia’s hand slips out.

  Blood runs from the nail marks left behind. Roderick snarls at Gray as her hand slaps him on the bridge of his nose, leaving a smear of her blood on his face.

  I can read Gray’s lips as he tells Ambrosia, “Walk away.”

  She obeys and turns toward me.

  Roderick licks at the corner of his mouth. The two keep staring. Never budging.

  Gray flings Roderick’s forearm back at him, pushing his body back a step.

  Roderick sneers and puts both his open hands in the air.

  Gray turns back toward us, his steps very fast, reaching us in no time.

  He touches my elbow, but looks directly at Ambrosia.

  Fifteen feet behind him, Roderick climbs on the stage.

  Gray says in a desperate voice to my scared friend, “You know what he is—get the hell out of town and don’t come back!”

  She nods, eyes watery.

  Two tall guys push their way past the DJ table to the end of the balcony and drop down on the stage with two loud thumps. The three of them stand in the center, casting their shadows on the movie screen. The two hired dancers on the pedestals on each side of the screen quickly flee the stage into the crowd.

  Gray sees it all, looks to me with a whirlwind in his eyes, and turns away toward the bar. He pushes Lyle and the blonde who were leaning on the bar kissing out of his way. With one motion he jumps to the top of the bar, toppling drinks, spilling their liquid across the old, stained surface. Grabbing two wooden barmaid stools from the other side, he places them atop the bar a few feet apart.

  It looks as though the bartender, who earlier blew him a kiss, now asks him what the hell he is doing. Gray says something to her, his face hard as stone. She nods and throws two towels on the bar, beginning to clean up the mess and console the irate customers.

  Gray jumps down and starts walking back to me. Lyle follows, shouting after him. Gray ignores him.

  In front of us, Gray looks sternly at Ambrosia and says, “Wait for it.”

  He turns from her toward the stage.

  She calls after him, “For what?”

  He doesn’t turn around. His eyes don’t glance at me, but his hand quickly brushes over my wrist as he passes.

  Lyle comes barreling up to us, “What the hell—”

  Ambrosia holds up her forearm bearing the bloody nail marks and cuts him off loudly, “The guy on the stage did this to me. He’s going after them.”

  Lyle stares at her arm. Then looking at Roderick and the two goons on the stage, his face becomes angry. He starts after Gray.

  “Lyle, no!” I shout, following behind him with Ambrosia in tow.

  Gray motions to the DJ. He makes a fist and flings his hand out as if imitating an explosion. The DJ nods. In a blur, Gray jumps on the stage.

  Roderick meets Gray, stopping an inch from him, face to face, just two inches shorter than my hunk, his two friends an inch or two shorter than that, one on each side of him—all three staring harshly at Gray.

  Lyle grabs the stage and awkwardly tries to pull himself up, banging his shin on the edge. Without even looking in his direction, Gray reaches down and pulls Lyle to his unsteady feet.

  I can hear bits of their conversation as we stand about a foot from the stage, some words buried in the noise of dance, music, and party. People have cleared back a few feet from the stage or left the dance floor altogether.

  “You can ta— her trampy friend home with y— and do what you w— to her, but Ambrosia stays.”

  Red-faced, Lyle shouts, “She’s no tramp, you son-of-a——she’s a schoolteacher at Riverview High for God’s Sa—”

  Still not looking at Lyle, Gray’s hand slaps tightly over Lyle’s mouth—forcing it shut.

  “A f——— schoolteacher?” blasts Roderick, laughing without smiling—his lackeys chuckling on cue, “Nice choice, Sim——.”

  Gray says something slowly, his face stern. Lifting his hand from Lyle’s mouth, Gray puts both of them together and holds them right in front of Roderick’s face as if praying. The wicked expression that the gesture brings to Roderick’s face is something terrible that I wish I couldn’t see.

  Gray says something else I can’t make out, nodding his head yes.

  Give about anything to get the bits I can’t hear.

  Finally something reaches my aching ears—Roderick saying, “Two minutes.”

  He puts his hand right at the bridge of Gray’s nose with two fingers extended.

  Lyle still rubs over his mouth as he’s done since Gray released him. Gray grabs him by his shoulders, lifts, and drops him down to the floor.

  The bitter-sweet “Voices Carry” begins playing through the speakers.

  Gray jumps to the floor, looks at Lyle, and points to the front door. Gray spins Ambrosia around and pushes her toward the bar. He grabs my hand, pulls me in front of him, places his hands on my shou
lders and guides me in the same direction. Lyle regains his balance and starts walking.

  As we approach the bar, without turning his head all the way around, Gray glances back to the stage. The three remain huddled together, Roderick watching us, the other two with their backs to us, facing Roderick.

  Before I realize he’s taken his hands off me, Gray leaps to the bar, grabs the stools, spins round and flings one zinging through the twenty-five feet from bar to the stage, crashing into the back of the man at Roderick’s left, the other stool right behind crashing into the other goon’s head and neck, sending shattered bits of wood into the crowd around the stage. Both goons fall to the ground.

  The remaining people rush toward the bar and the front door.

  Not looking at his friends who’ve fallen at his feet, Roderick stares at Gray who has leapt back to the floor—standing between me and the stage. Roderick stares with both hatred and a look of crazed amusement at the chaos that has just begun.

  The look of amusement flees his face, his upper lip rises like a curtain unveiling hell, fangs shining—he rushes forward, stepping on the back of one of his friends. Sparks and flame shoot the length of the front of the stage, trapping Roderick. The DJ—the last person on the balcony—sprints for the exit, panic screaming across his face.

  The flames make a wall of orange and yellow, casting a glow on Gray as he turns to look at me.

  Fire rages in the background, but I don’t care if the whole world burns. His azure irises swirl—coursing with emotion. His kiss takes me. Sparks run through my lips. His tongue so intense, desperately trying to tell me the things he no longer has time to say.

  Eternity in a moment. Together whole. The same energy racing through both of us.

  Damn this world that makes him release me.

  I look into his eyes, waiting for the word that will sustain me or break my heart.

  His blue eyes quake, yearning to say I’ll come for you, but he pushes his lips tightly shut, holding back the promise. Suddenly, the word falls from his lips.

  “Run.”

  “Voices Carry” fades away. No sound. Just the hissing of the pyro flickering at the stage.

  A hand reaches through the flames, an accusing finger points, flesh burns and singes, and a tense, charred fist forms.