Page 9 of How to Flirt with a Hellhound
“I thought it was a fool who played it cool,” I smirked.
Jude laughed. “Hey, no using lyrics against me.”
“You’re the one who chose a Beatles song for a name,” I answered.
“Better than choosing the name of a serial killer from tv,” he responded.
“That was a good show!” I protested. “What I watched of it, anyway. A serial killer with a moral code. Seemed like the perfect name to me.” So I’d only seen a few episodes of my namesake television show, but I had grown rather fond of the name.
“Listen though, about the town…” Jude started.
“I don’t know,” I cut in. “Maybe. It feels good here. But I’m not ready for the whole pack to descend just yet.”
“Because of your cute neighbor?” Jude asked.
“He feels like pack to my hellhound,” I answered quietly.
“Ok. Well, keep me posted. And just… I don’t know… try to act like a normal human,” Jude said before we said our farewells and hung up.
Yeah. If only it were that simple. If I knew what acting like a normal human entailed, I wouldn't have called Jude to begin with.
I supposed he at least answered the coffee question. Sort of. I debated bringing the cup I’d made for myself over then decided against it since I hadn’t asked Jude. I’d just bring the hammer over, and Toby and I would have a normal, human conversation.
Yep. It should be easy.
Chapter 5
Toby
Ihad managed to eat myself into a chip coma last night and mostly ignore the disturbing email. In the light of day, it all seemed kind of silly anyway. Writers got advice and weird opinions from people all the time. People said things online they didn’t mean and would never say in real life.
Yup. I was hoping that was the case and that I never heard from the creep again.
I’d probably tell my PA at some point, but right now I was in the zone. I had a couple thousand words done this morning already, but I was currently in the hot vampire’s point of view. He had walked in on a bit of a blood bath, but I didn’t actually want the main character dead. If the walls were painted with his blood, would he still be alive? I mean, sure, I could use magic to explain a lot of stuff, but I didn’t want to betotallyunrealistic.
The doorbell rang, and I took my computer with me to the front door, pondering the scene I was writing. I remembered at the last moment to look out the peephole before opening the door.
Ah, Serial Killer Neighbor was here. Perfect.
I opened the door, asking, “How much blood can a person lose before they die?”
“Depends on the human’s size,” he responded.
I motioned him in, saying, “My guy is average height and weight.”
“Hmm. Probably about 85 ounces before death. Although the human would probably pass out around 65 ounces or so. They’d be cool and clammy and pale looking at that point as well,” he added.
I looked at him, vaguely disgruntled. He must have noticed, because he stopped, looking a bit awkward. Gah, even awkward looked sexy on him. So unfair.
“Listen, ounces mean nothing to me,” I said. “Are we talking enough to spray the walls and have pools of blood on the ground? Or is that much blood everywhere unrealistic?” I asked, sitting at my kitchen table and starting to type again.
“Oh,” he laughed, sounding relieved, although I didn’t know why. “Yeah, 65 ounces is about a half a gallon. So think about if you took a half a gallon of milk and threw it onto the walls a cup at a time. If it was a small room, you’d have more than enough to have a coating on the three walls, and it would naturally drip down and pool on the ground. That’s assuming there were numerous injuries that sprayed blood, of course.”
“Of course,” I answered, adding that description to my writing. I stopped then, looking up at him. “Three walls?” I asked.
“Well, yeah, because I assume whoever was making the human bleed would be standing in front of the fourth wall, so that area would not be as blood coated. Although the person who did the torturing would definitely be coated in blood. Of course if it was one major injury to make the human bleed out you wouldn’t have blood everywhere. There would be a focused spray,” he said.
“An evil vampire is doing the torturing,” I said absently, still typing. “But yeah, I don’t want a focused spray. This is extended torture, so I’m going with lots of smaller wounds,” I mumbled.
