“I love you too, Wes.” The line went quiet for a moment, just the soft click of a blinker. “Really though, dude, he sounds cute, and you sound interested.”
“Interested in using him to get me this recruitment job!” Wes tucked one leg beneath him and kicked his other over the couch armrest, scrolling mindlessly through his downloaded games. “You should be happy for me. You’re the one who’s been pushing me to apply.” Not that he would be keeping the job for long, because he didn’t intend for there to be a functional Vitalis-Barron left once he revealed the depths of their depravity, but what was the point of emotionally manipulating your best friend if you didn’t also lie a little?
“I am glad! You’ve just talked more about this vampire than you have about the job you’re saying you’ll use him to get to, and that sounds kind of suspicious to me.”
Wes could tell her. He could still tell her everything, or at least the very little everything there was to tell. But his mother’s death felt like it belonged solely inside his chest right now. It had grown so large there, shaped into something pointed and a little nasty, and he didn’t want to drag her into that, not until he’d speared it through the heart of the people who’d let his mother die.
“Wes? You there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.” He clicked away from his downloaded games, browsing through the newer releases just to give himself something to do that didn’t involve having an angry breakdown he couldn’t tell Kendall about. “Maybe it’ll all be a bust. The vamp might not even come back.”
“I think he will,” Kendall replied. “Who can pass you up, Wesley? You’re highly biteable.”
“Very funny.” He hovered over a new multi-route RPG, tapping his finger to the side of his controller. Night Of Blood: date, kill, or feed? Judging by the previews it seemed to have some kind of romance aspect mixed in with a murder mystery component, including playable and datable vampire options.
Wes hit buy.
6
VINCENT
Vincent stopped beneath the overhang of Wesley’s house, tugging at the frays on his fingerless gloves. Light streamed between the curtains of the large living room window to his right,spilling slivers of orange onto the flowering bush below it. He used the tip of his toe to nudge aside an overlong branch that had begun creeping onto the walkway. The duct tape under his sole caught on the tops of the little decorative tiles that flanked the cement. He shoved it back into place with a hop, nearly falling into the potted cacti beneath the wall-mounted mailbox.
He just had to get it over with. The longer he stood there, the more his nerves flared every which way and his rather empty stomach churned in a flurry of butterflies. He should not have been this damn anxious; he knew what would be behind this door.
Get in, feed, get out. Nothing had changed. Vincent was just here for blood, and Wesley for the curiosity or the rush or the story—for another beaming picture to hang on his collage of wild memories—and that would be that.
Vincent lifted his finger to the doorbell. And held it in mid-air. He swallowed.
Get in, feed, get out. That was all he had to do. That, and not focus too much on the bob of Wesley’s curls or the curve of his neck or the way his smile could fill the very edges of his face. Oh god.
Vincent pressed the doorbell. It chimed a quaint jingle. From inside the house rang a curse, then a shout.
“Coming!”
Vincent shifted between his feet. He could still leave. Break into some random victim’s bedroom like he had the last two nights. Be satisfied with bland blood from complete strangers and hope they all slept through it. He could still—
But then the door swung open. Wesley leaned against it, just as delicious as ever, an arm propped distractingly over his head and a grin on his face that seemed to light up the darkness. A set of teal and gold beads was wrapped ten or twelve times up one of his wrists, accentuating his strong fingers. His loose t-shirt was just a little lopsided over his shoulders and his tight pants sculpted his thighs in ways that made Vincent have to deliberately stop himself from staring. The man swept his gaze over Vincent, and his expression stiffened a little, the smile growing slightly forced.
Vincent adjusted his jacket, trying to ignore the way that tiny shift rattled him. He’d changed his shirt to his spare, even though it was a little warm for the season and the hole under one shoulder had grown so large that his armpit hair was poking through it. Maybe he should have stuck with the original. “Hi.”
“Hey!” Wesley launched off the door, waving him into the house. “You’re early, I was just eating. I guess that’s perfect timing?”
“Only if you want to risk fainting into your food.” It was a joke, technically, and after a moment’s hesitation, Wes seemed to take it as such.
“Ha! Well, then, I should probably finish eatingbeforeyou eat me.”
Vincent looked at the doorstep, then back at Wesley’s retreating form. For once he was being invited inside, so why did this feel harder than breaking and entering?
“Vinny?” Wesley leaned around the wall of the kitchen, head cocked and brows raised. He looked like he was debating whether to return for Vincent’s coat like some old-time butler. Based on the neighborhood’s average income, Vincent was fairly certain he would be the first butler ever to work in a five-mile radius.
“Coming.” Vincent slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
The house smelled of Wesley. It was faint and a little tangier than the musk Wes gave off directly, but it seemed ingrained in the space, like a bakery after hours of cooking or a greenhouse in full bloom. Warm and dark and sweet, it was such a contrast to Wesley’s personal jubilance, and somehow just right for him, too.
The scent made it even odder how instantly familiar the house’s floorplan was, the living room to Vincent’s right a mirrored image of his childhood one. Wesley’s stairs on the left were wood where Vincent’s had been carpet and the first-floor bedroom beside it was closed up where his had always been kept open, his parents hoping it would get him to come out more, be a real part of the family for once.
As if that had ever turned out well for them when he actually made the effort.
