Page 20 of The Royal Street Witch
“We could do this, ya know, do this in a real club. Go Uptown or even Frenchman Street.” His grip tightens, his hard stomach against mine before he spins me out and the air is light around us. I have to be sensible and level-headed. I can’t get caught up in a friendship with him, not with everything that’s at stake.
“You’re very beautiful,” he states, his jaw set tight, his face so earnest.
It softens something inside of me, how vulnerable he lets himself become, so I smile.
“So are you, like a male peacock, in a sea of females.” It’s a vampire thing and we both know it. Their beauty is what pulls humans in, like moths to flames. His lip curls in a pleased way, his thumb caressing my hand, and I’m struck with how dangerous this can become—is already becoming. I must stop it.
“We can’t complicate things,” I force out, and he blinks rapidly.
There’s something about sweat that’s beautiful, how it forms on the surface of skin, the shiny beads almost glowing. I didn’t think vampires sweat, or I never really thought about it. But the sweat gathering inside the indentation of Bastian’s throat is a glimmery sight, and I want to watch it dance down his chest. I don’t get a chance.
“Right,” Bastian says, creating space between us but not letting me go, and the music builds, that crescendo we spoke of, and we dance with more intensity than before, anticipating each other’s move, a step ahead of one another and I close my eyes. I can feel where I’m going and I don’t open them until I’m dipped in his arms, his face inches from mine, the music ceasing, my heart booming. I stand, and in total silence, show myself out. Thankfully he doesn’t follow me.
I tell myself the entire ride home that it’s normal to have a crush on vampires. They are constructed for humans to have crushes on them. It’s to be expected, yet I’m still disappointed in myself, in the way I’m feeling.
So, I fight the urge to smell his hair as I pull it from the pouch and place it next to the boiling water, but fuck if I just want to know how it smells before it’s burnt, so I pull the pieces under my nose, the smell of mint clearing my sinuses, the hair now dry and so very soft.
Time to cease, I say to myself and drop it in the boiling water. Time to cease the ruin that finding a vampire attractive brings. It’s like a disease really; it spreads and devours from the outside in, and I won’t be diseased. I allow myself a few minutes of him taking up space in my mind, and then I let him and his stupid fucking sweatpants go. I’ve got more important things to focus on.
THE HAIR DIDN’T WORK, ANDit’s been two weeks. Two weeks of Bastian lounging on my black velvet chair, wrapped around Mercury’s little claw. Two weeks of countless tests and trials, of Bastian drinking copious potions that may or may not have lasting side effects. This early afternoon he drank a concoction of his own blood and spit mixed with an incantation I really thought would work, but he remained the same and I felt like a failure.
“Okay, I think that’s it for now. I need to re-group and concentrate,” I say, sitting back on my stool.
“We need a drink,” Bastian announces and jerks his head toward a bottle of Chantal’s tequila on the breakroom refrigerator. Desperately needing a change of scenery, I decided to work in the shop kitchen tonight.
“Tequila? No thanks.” I scoff, knowing full well that I should not be under the influence of anything around him, but it does sound appealing, the clear liquid in the bottle. Salt and lime.
“Come on, live a little,” he says with a wink, and the irony isn’t lost on me. I slide off my stool, grabbing limes, salt, and two shot glasses. Just a couple, to loosen me up. Because I’ve hit such a substantial wall, I’m starting to doubt myself. I need to be free from my mind, if only for a couple of hours, to imagine or construct a new plan. Bastian’s blood, spit, and hair hasn’t worked, nor a dove’s feather, nor every herb and oil I can possibly think of.
My brain is on overdrive as I walk through the kitchen door out to my private courtyard and hear Bastian’s feet hit the floor, following me outside.
I place the two glasses on my wrought iron table, twist the lid, and sloppily pour two shots. Pulling the knife from my boot, I meet eyes with Bastian, and they seem to alight. But he says nothing, just watches me with a keen eye as I slice a lime into quarters then hand him one along with a shot.
“No chasers?” he says with intrigue, and I roll my eyes.
“Who needs chasers?”
“Not me.” He takes a seat and sprinkles salt on his hand. I do the same, and he raises his shot glass with a quick “Cheers.” We click glasses, lick our salt, and down the shots in unison. I suck on my lime far longer than he does, then pry it from my teeth with a long fingernail. His eyes are on my hands then my lips and then on my eyes.
“Another,” he whispers, and I do it. I do it when I know I shouldn’t, but my gaze doesn’t leave his, not for a second as I pour again and drizzle more salt on my hand. This time, the salt licking is slower on both ends, as I watch his wet tongue glide across his hand, and there’s a pull on my stomach at the sight. I want to close my eyes, to look away, but I can’t, I fucking can’t because he’s goddamn mesmerizing and I really hate that about him. I lick my salt and take the shot, finally closing my eyes because his are glowing green even in the dark of my brick lined courtyard, only one gas lamp on, hanging from the corner of my building.
Belly warmed, I forgot that tequila makes me hot, but tonight my clothes will stay on.
“Just one more and that’ll do me,” he says as he grabs the bottle, and I sneer at him because he only poured for himself.
“Excuse me?” I point to my empty glass.
With the audacity to look surprised, he pours mine full and I grab it with a huff, though I already feel that slow spread of liquor across my body and I can’t remember when I ate last. Hours and hours ago, yet I won’t be bested by him.
With three shots down in a matter of minutes, a lazy calm overcomes me. Clearing my head, clearing my head—that’s the mission, so I look up to the stars and the moon and smile.
“I really did think there was a man in the moon once,” I say, my head back, my hair gently dancing with a breeze.
Bastian inhales, slow and deep, and my head jerks up because he’s smelling me, he’s smelling me or my hair, and I can’t forget that he lives off the likes of me—humans with blood-filled veins. Even if I’m a witch, I’m very much alive and mortal and even though my blood can kill him, it doesn’t stop his desire for it.
He looks almost caught in the act of something, but he literally hasn’t moved a muscle since our last drink—his legs are still sprawled out in front of him, hooked at the ankles, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “I’m sorry. It’s coconut? Right? Coconut shampoo? I didn’t peg you for that.”
At this point, all I can do is laugh because I wouldn’t peg myself for that either. “Makes me think of vacation. Though I’ve never been on vacation as an adult. So I buy tropical scented products because I think that’s what vacation smells like.”
